[How the fuck had they gotten here. Things had been going well, until they hadn't. Well, good enough as you can get with a mole running about and spilling secrets left and right. Hell of a first few months, Tuck couldn't deny that.
FDR was a standup guy, if not a little creepy in his approach to women. Aside form that, he was collected despite hissometimes spastic inclination. He took time to getting used to but in face of the other Americans he was used to, FDR was refreshing. Unlike the contact with a fist that whipped his head to the side.
What were they saying? Something about their access to some servers? Tuck wasn't listening. He was too busy wondering how to get out of this, if he would get to see another woman smack FDR across the cheek after he whispered something in her ear. He wondered, no matter the way they used his face and torso like a punching bag, if either of them would be getting home outside of bodybags.
It's tired, the way he turns his head to them dragging his partner near, dryly swallowing at the sassāgetting too exhausted too add or reprimand. And then there are magic words after one of them opens a file, ones that make his head snap up; make his stomach drop and blood begin to boil.]
[Quite the medical record. Lucky you have insuranceāhaving babies are not cheap these days. But that was, three, four years ago?]
Stop, [He manages a bubbling mutter, tensing his arms.]
[A little boy.]
Shut your mouth. [Tuck spits through gritted teeth.]
[Shame he won't remember you. Not that he'll have much time to miss you. Poor little Josiah.]
I'll put you in the fucking ground! [He roars over the amused chuckling of their captors, straining against his cuffs so much the metal bites and pales his skin.]
no subject
FDR was a standup guy, if not a little creepy in his approach to women. Aside form that, he was collected despite hissometimes spastic inclination. He took time to getting used to but in face of the other Americans he was used to, FDR was refreshing. Unlike the contact with a fist that whipped his head to the side.
What were they saying? Something about their access to some servers? Tuck wasn't listening. He was too busy wondering how to get out of this, if he would get to see another woman smack FDR across the cheek after he whispered something in her ear. He wondered, no matter the way they used his face and torso like a punching bag, if either of them would be getting home outside of bodybags.
It's tired, the way he turns his head to them dragging his partner near, dryly swallowing at the sassāgetting too exhausted too add or reprimand. And then there are magic words after one of them opens a file, ones that make his head snap up; make his stomach drop and blood begin to boil.]
[Quite the medical record. Lucky you have insuranceāhaving babies are not cheap these days. But that was, three, four years ago?]
Stop, [He manages a bubbling mutter, tensing his arms.]
[A little boy.]
Shut your mouth. [Tuck spits through gritted teeth.]
[Shame he won't remember you. Not that he'll have much time to miss you. Poor little Josiah.]
I'll put you in the fucking ground! [He roars over the amused chuckling of their captors, straining against his cuffs so much the metal bites and pales his skin.]