Badfic Challenge by Rustler
Apr. 14th, 2006 11:58 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
rustler.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ds_flashfictionTitle: Spies like US Canada
Prompt: Fraser is the BEST, most AWESOME and SNEAKY spy in Canada, he always gets his job done and never hesitates to do exactly what it takes! Ray Kowalski is a spy too, all mysterious and glamorous and sultry. What happens when they meet and fall in love??? How do they choose between love and important spy stuff for their country??? WARNING SLASH, ANGST, SAP.
Prompt written by:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
pearl_o
Ratings/Warnings/Etc: I loved this prompt and I only wish I could have done *more*. I resurrected Inspector Moffatt from the pilot. Thanks tokitestringer for courage.
“Excuse me,” Fraser smiled and surreptitiously snapped three more photos of the Latvian consul with his cufflink camera while reaching for a salmon puff. A minute adjustment of his cravat triggered the satellite uplink, transferring the digital images to Inspector Moffatt, waiting in the converted florist’s truck down the block from the Embassy.
Turning from the buffet table, Fraser eased closer to a knot of champagne-wielding diplomats, slipping effortlessly into their group with a courteous nod. He hadn’t yet spotted the evening’s true target, but figured he might as well use the Canadian Secret Weapon to pick up a few tidbits of intelligence while he was waiting.
A tall, dark haired woman in an expensive silk shift gave him an appraising look while suggestively fingering the rim of her champagne glass. Fraser’s spine stiffened even more than usual in response. Attention was not good. Deployment of the Canadian Secret Weapon depended largely on bland anonymity and a steady consumption of finger-foods to ward off the conversational gambits of others. Quickly, he glanced away, seeking out the nearest waiter. Spotting a familiar black-clad form holding a sliver tray, Fraser approached.
“Excuse me,” he said, for what must have been the thirtieth time that evening. The waiter turned around and Fraser was dismayed to see the tray piled high with spinach mini-quiche. After all, he’d already had a few salmon puffs and was hesitant to start in on another rich selection. Inspector Moffatt, who had truly raised the Canadian Secret Weapon to an art form, had been relegated to sitting in the surveillance van after twenty years of fieldwork had finally taken its toll on his cholesterol levels.
“Hey buddy, you don’t want the quiche, move along,” said the waiter in a voice that sounded both belligerent and bored.
“I’m sorry, I was hoping for vegetable crudités.”
“If real men don’t eat quiche, they definitely don’t eat those vegetable whateveryoucallits.”
“Pardon?” Fraser looked up, confused. The waiter was staring at him, the picture of exasperated annoyance – and it was not a bad looking picture, at that. His height, but slimmer, body looking lean and whipcord tight in the catering company’s “cool downtown” all-black uniform, and a fine-boned face set off by artfully angled spikes of blond hair.
“Look, quiche, or move along, huh? Quiche. Or move along.”
The waiter’s brusque tone snapped Fraser out of it, and he blinked. “What? Oh, yes. Quiche.” He reached out to take one of the mini-quiche from the tray, when a movement caught out of the corner of his eye grabbed his attention.
Quiche forgotten, Fraser turned to watch Ludvig Henrik Carl Herman Holstein-Holsteinsborg make his way through the crowded reception, smiling and nodding at the assembled diplomats like royalty.
“Holstein-Holsteinsborg,” the waiter muttered almost inaudibly under his breath, and Fraser turned to give him a sharp look. Aha!
Fraser swore a mild oath at himself for having not noticed it sooner – there, tucked oh so casually into the waiter’s pocket, was a model J15-451 single-rose boutonniere omni-directional electret condenser microphone with 20Hz - 20,000Hz frequency response and 35dB sensitivity — fairly standard equipment for formal event detail.
So…Holstein-Holsteinsborg was here, and Fraser was not the only spy keeping an eye on him. Fraser snuck another glance at the waiter. The evening had just gotten much more interesting.
TBC…
***
Note: Um, Ludvig Henrik Carl Herman Holstein-Holsteinsborg was the Prime Minister of Denmark from 1870-1874. Because I'm so sure you were wondering. And, um, if I'd had more time, there would have been some nonsense about a nefarious plot to corner the world market for tinned fish, and Kevlar tuxedos, and climbing up the outside of buildings (that's why God gave us grappling hooks), and sweaty man-on-man sex and stuff. But yeah, I really need to do my taxes. *g*
Prompt: Fraser is the BEST, most AWESOME and SNEAKY spy in Canada, he always gets his job done and never hesitates to do exactly what it takes! Ray Kowalski is a spy too, all mysterious and glamorous and sultry. What happens when they meet and fall in love??? How do they choose between love and important spy stuff for their country??? WARNING SLASH, ANGST, SAP.
Prompt written by:
pearl_oRatings/Warnings/Etc: I loved this prompt and I only wish I could have done *more*. I resurrected Inspector Moffatt from the pilot. Thanks to
kitestringer for courage. “Excuse me,” Fraser smiled and surreptitiously snapped three more photos of the Latvian consul with his cufflink camera while reaching for a salmon puff. A minute adjustment of his cravat triggered the satellite uplink, transferring the digital images to Inspector Moffatt, waiting in the converted florist’s truck down the block from the Embassy.
Turning from the buffet table, Fraser eased closer to a knot of champagne-wielding diplomats, slipping effortlessly into their group with a courteous nod. He hadn’t yet spotted the evening’s true target, but figured he might as well use the Canadian Secret Weapon to pick up a few tidbits of intelligence while he was waiting.
A tall, dark haired woman in an expensive silk shift gave him an appraising look while suggestively fingering the rim of her champagne glass. Fraser’s spine stiffened even more than usual in response. Attention was not good. Deployment of the Canadian Secret Weapon depended largely on bland anonymity and a steady consumption of finger-foods to ward off the conversational gambits of others. Quickly, he glanced away, seeking out the nearest waiter. Spotting a familiar black-clad form holding a sliver tray, Fraser approached.
“Excuse me,” he said, for what must have been the thirtieth time that evening. The waiter turned around and Fraser was dismayed to see the tray piled high with spinach mini-quiche. After all, he’d already had a few salmon puffs and was hesitant to start in on another rich selection. Inspector Moffatt, who had truly raised the Canadian Secret Weapon to an art form, had been relegated to sitting in the surveillance van after twenty years of fieldwork had finally taken its toll on his cholesterol levels.
“Hey buddy, you don’t want the quiche, move along,” said the waiter in a voice that sounded both belligerent and bored.
“I’m sorry, I was hoping for vegetable crudités.”
“If real men don’t eat quiche, they definitely don’t eat those vegetable whateveryoucallits.”
“Pardon?” Fraser looked up, confused. The waiter was staring at him, the picture of exasperated annoyance – and it was not a bad looking picture, at that. His height, but slimmer, body looking lean and whipcord tight in the catering company’s “cool downtown” all-black uniform, and a fine-boned face set off by artfully angled spikes of blond hair.
“Look, quiche, or move along, huh? Quiche. Or move along.”
The waiter’s brusque tone snapped Fraser out of it, and he blinked. “What? Oh, yes. Quiche.” He reached out to take one of the mini-quiche from the tray, when a movement caught out of the corner of his eye grabbed his attention.
Quiche forgotten, Fraser turned to watch Ludvig Henrik Carl Herman Holstein-Holsteinsborg make his way through the crowded reception, smiling and nodding at the assembled diplomats like royalty.
“Holstein-Holsteinsborg,” the waiter muttered almost inaudibly under his breath, and Fraser turned to give him a sharp look. Aha!
Fraser swore a mild oath at himself for having not noticed it sooner – there, tucked oh so casually into the waiter’s pocket, was a model J15-451 single-rose boutonniere omni-directional electret condenser microphone with 20Hz - 20,000Hz frequency response and 35dB sensitivity — fairly standard equipment for formal event detail.
So…Holstein-Holsteinsborg was here, and Fraser was not the only spy keeping an eye on him. Fraser snuck another glance at the waiter. The evening had just gotten much more interesting.
TBC…
***
Note: Um, Ludvig Henrik Carl Herman Holstein-Holsteinsborg was the Prime Minister of Denmark from 1870-1874. Because I'm so sure you were wondering. And, um, if I'd had more time, there would have been some nonsense about a nefarious plot to corner the world market for tinned fish, and Kevlar tuxedos, and climbing up the outside of buildings (that's why God gave us grappling hooks), and sweaty man-on-man sex and stuff. But yeah, I really need to do my taxes. *g*
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Date: 2006-04-14 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-15 04:21 pm (UTC)