#to a degree I even borrow from the movie Unleashed

[disappearinginq]

I thought I was writing 5+ different Slow Horses fic, and I have come to realize I am instead writing one long AU where River and Lamb meet when River is seven and recently dumped at David's house, and they continue to see each other (begrudgingly) throughout the years until River winds up in MI5.

It's basically the same as canon. Truly. The only difference is context to their conversations, like in season one when Lamb is the one to break the news about Sid to River in the car, and then proceeds to give him a glimpse into his own past about how surviving is the short straw, and abruptly wonders why he's telling River anything.

And River never corrects people when they assume it's his granddad pulling strings, when it's really Lamb, because both of them will vehemently deny it, because having connections is dangerous. But Lamb has always liked the fact that River, fundamentally, causes trouble wherever he goes, to the point that Lamb refers to him as a Black Cat. But his favorite River Fuck Up is when River is 12 and David brings him to work, and River promptly wanders off, nosing into places he doesn't belong, which just cements his future ability to continuously break into and steal from MI5 in canon.

Which then leads to my current scenario which is (heavily) inspired by @altschmerzes version of events for their fic Driving the Wedge, and the above gifset, where River is kidnapped by Frank, and Frank is absolutely ripshit that no matter what he does to River, River's loyalty isn't to any family member at all (even if he does love his grandfather), and that is something that Frank just won't tolerate.

[stingslikeabee]

The Continental verse

Born as Lilian Siân Owens-Drysdell to a Welsh crime syndicate family, Lilian had the life of a princess growing up: surrounded in equal measures by luxury and the knowledge of what her family did for a living, the girl nonetheless took after her mother and her hobbies - gardening, beekeeping and being as sweet as the honey produced in their backyard had been Lilian's preferred strategy to achieve her own goals.

Not that she needed to manipulate the patriarch or most of his men to get anything - those under Edgar's rule would always do whatever his oldest asked without any hesitation, but his daughter just had a knack for being welcoming, hospitable and displaying other true talents of a seasoned hostess like her mother, used to holding, planning and organizing many grand events at the Drysdell estate.

And perhaps it was precisely because Lilian was so much averse to inheriting her father's role that she insisted in carving a different path, away from Edgar's shadow and influence. While firing a gun or getting into hand to hand combat were nothing the girl hadn't been trained for given her bloodline, there was no sense of personal fulfillment for Lilian in being a mafia boss. Instead, there was something much more attractive in connecting to people.

Finding out what made someone content, uncovering their strengths and weaknesses, providing for others while taking note of their reactions and soaking all that information - these were the true joys for Lilian, who fully embraced the approach of catching flies with honey and adopted the alias of 'Melissa'. With her origins, it was not difficult to find employment under one of the many Continental branches, earning the respect of the fellow hotel workers for her abilities and eventually getting promoted to the position of a concierge.

As concierge of the Continental, Melissa is the right-hand to whatever manager is currently serving as head of that location, as appointed by the High Table. While she is not privy to management-exclusive secrets of hotel operations, she is nonetheless vital to keep the hotel running essentially as what it is meant to be - from the regular hospitality services to the additional activities they might offer their guests for the right fees, there is a lot that she oversees and deals with, with varying degrees of personal involvement depending on how legendary the guest is.

The fact that she has blood ties to the Welsh mafia is not a state secret - but it is not openly advertised and, given how far Melissa has moved to make a career for herself, that connection is rarely (if ever) made. Most of the times, her reputation derives from the excellent service offered and the obvious preference for customized jewelry, accessories and weapons - several of Melissa's items have honeybees or honeycombs engraved or carved into them and she seems to enjoy the associations to the Greek nymph who she borrowed the alias from.

Note: I don't know what to say - but I sat down to watch 'The Continental' (the show set in the same verse of the John Wick movies) and I just had to make a concierge!Melissa verse. It has been in my head for a full day and I just decided to unleash this gremlin variety on the dash to make it everyone else's problem. I am using a mix of the movie and the show lore here and keeping her associated to a nondescript Continental; it doesn't even need to be a main one or under Winston's management (following Charon's death in JW4). It just made sense to me - Melissa's verses by default have her being a hostess and someone who derives a great deal of pleasure in connecting with people and making them feel welcome; it hardly felt like a stretch. The main difference is that this is a Melissa that knows how to fight back; she would never win against trained/professional assassins because that's not her forte, but she's not as useless in a physical confrontation as 99% of her counterparts. It's also safe to say she's absolutely used to violence despite having a decent family (although one she doesn't see or visits frequently). And although this is a verse rooted in John Wick lore, it doesn't need to be restricted to it! For any other purposes, she's just a concierge at a very unique hotel with surprising skills - either because she just doesn't want to pick up the family legacy as an outright mafia boss or for another personal reason that has driven her to the hospitality business. This is flexible and easy to be adapted as needed!

[angededesespoir]

You Are Not You, and You Are Not Your Own

A/N:  For Day 1- “How We Were”- History/Decay.

.....Listen, I’m sorry in advance.  I’ve had an idea for awhile now.  And that idea was that maybe Talon started exerting some control Gabe before the fall, shaping him over time, manipulating him, brain-washing him to a degree..

And there’s always that part of him that resists, that hangs on.  But it gets harder to cling to over time.  Gets drowned out by everything else.  Gets lost in the sea of inner turmoil.

Anyway- *Coughs*  I borrowed a quote and a scene from the “Old Soldiers” comic.

Now on with the show.

(Can also be read on AO3.)

It’s one of those missions where anything that can go wrong, does go wrong.

When he wakes up, he finds himself in a hospital bed, monitors working steadily, body stiff and aching.  After a second, he registers Jack’s presence.  

The man’s in an equally uncomfortable looking chair, hands clutching onto Gabe’s right hand, pressing it to his lips.  He can feel the quiver, the warm wetness that keeps falling onto his skin.  The man’s body shudders, but the sound remains suppressed.

It’s like he’s watching a silent film.  Only the actions aren’t exaggerated.  And there’s that annoying beeping in the background.  

It’s surreal.  He hasn’t seen him cry in so long.

His heart hurts.  He needs him to stop.

He gathers the energy, the strength, to squeeze his hand.  Jack’s head jerks up, startled.

“...Gabe?  Gabe!  Thank God!”

He’s surging forward, an assault of kisses on a wounded man.

And it’s exactly like those old movies they used to watch with Ana and Reinhardt.  

It’s like the world is faded, and Jack is rambling, but he can’t make out one word.

--

Things begin to change after that mission.  He doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand what’s happening.

At first it concerns him.

He’s snapping more than usual.  Not even over big issues, but petty things.  He notices a growing unease in some of the members, a nervous look in their eyes.

After awhile, Jesse works up the courage, tries to approach him.  (He’s a tough kid, but Gabriel can see through him, see his worry.  Shut it down.  Hide.  Conceal.)  Gabe brushes him off, shuts the door of his office in the young man’s face.

He sits, but doesn't move to attend to the growing piles of paperwork that litter his desk.

He can still see the blood, still feel it.

His fingers flex and then straighten- a repeated routine, a distraction that can’t help anything because it’s still there, still in his hand.

He can’t remember- not when he leaves or what exactly occurs when he does.  He just remembers entering the base, the ghost of a fragment of memory at the edge of his mind, clinging to his skin, infecting him slowly.

It’s not just the anger that’s arisen.  It’s the fear.

Fear of what he’s capable of, fear of changes he no longer has control over (never did- always, always, someone above him, calling the shots, manipulating him- nothing more than someone’s little experiment).  There’s that unexplainable sense.   That there’s someone there.   Waiting. Watching.

Who can he turn to?  Jack, Jack, Jack.  No one.  

No one is to be trusted.

He does not answer when the string of memorized numbers and coded contact name flashes bright on his phone, unique tune blaring.  He ignores the long-established pattern of knocks that come later on his door.

He discards the evidence of his sins.

No one can know.

--

He cannot pinpoint when it happened.  

He doesn’t question it.  (It's hard to these days.)

He lets the past - once thought resolved - bubble up.  

At some point, a switch was flicked without his knowing, going against his every desire.  

Instead of craving his husband’s kisses, he feels like snapping his neck.  He has never felt angrier than in the moments he has to spend in the same room as the man.

And to think, there was once a time when he fought for each precious second of his time.

Now his hands are curled into fists, voice raised, a terrible violence writhing within him, begging to be unleashed.

He oversteps his ground, and Morrison, painfully, stands his. 

And then he’s storming out.

Because if he doesn’t, he knows when he comes to in his room, he’ll be drenched in all too familiar blood.

He ignores the calls later.  It’s routine now.  

He feeds the distance.  He lets it fuel his anger.

It’s better this way.  Better to dispel the illusion.

He lets it consume him.

--

When he comes to, there is nothing but pain and anger.  They’re the only stable constant he can remember.  Everything else feels fleeting.

Like his body, he quickly discovers.

There’s the hideous smell of sweet rot, and between that and the dizziness of disorientation, the nausea blossoms.  He feels too much, and nothing at all.  Like he’s trapped inside a blender turned to the highest setting.  But also like he’s nothing more than wind.  

He wants it to stop.  It’s too much.  Too much.

There’s the pain.  And the anger.

And then there’s him.

Messy blond hair and eyes shifting from soft sea to violent storm.  (He’s drowning either way.  They both are.)

He cradles the image in his mind.

He wants to tear him apart.

He tries to breathe, to settle.

He wants him to pay.

It hurts, but the room is spinning less now.  He thinks he can feel ground beneath him.

He’s back.

He lets nothingness consume him.

He doesn’t exist.

It’s everything.  

It’s the only thing.

--

He’s the spider and the Soldier is the prey caught in his web.

How long he has hungered.  How hard he has worked, pulling the strings of this delicate trap.

He sweeps in, ashes coalescing into resemblance of life, of figment of past creation.,

There’s the shot- ear-splitting.  

And then he’s standing over the shaking form.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth.

Such is the nature of revenge.

He taunts.

He should be dead.  He should be in shambles.

He doesn’t know.

He should be like me.

He never did.

He should suffer.  (I should spare him.)  He will pay.

Tactics is his specialty.  But even the best-laid plans don’t always work out.

Sometimes the prey breaks free.  Sometimes the web is damaged.  .....Sometimes the bird eats the spider.

The dart almost makes contact.

Why?  Why chose him?  (I would, I would’ve...)

There’s so many familiar things.  But above all is the anger.

Don’t trust him.  He’ll hurt you.  (He hurt me.  He’s the cause.)

Action.  Anger to fuel necessary action.

He knows.  He has to know.

There are too many ghosts in this world.

He has to remember.  He has to know he’s to blame.

He is one of them.

He doesn’t deserve to live.  (He doesn’t deserve to die.)

There is horror in her eyes.

This is what fate looks like.  This is the face of betrayal.

It’s like he’s back at square one.  It hurts.  It hurts so much.

You are to blame.

There’s the anger.  And the pain.  And the fear.

You should know by now.

And then there’s him.

There’s no such thing as saints.

“They left you to die.  They left me to suffer...Never forget that.”

And it’s time you paid for your sins.

He is nothing.  That’s what they wanted.

Acknowledge what you’ve done.

He leaves.  Like he’s storming out of that cold office.  (Like he’s spinning around, grabbing him, hauling the bleeding form away from the field.  Protect.  Protect. Protect.)

A monster replaces man; a soldier replaces a puppet.

There is too much, and too little.

He can forget, but you will always remember.

In the end, you are nothing, and you belong to no one.  

(Or, that’s what you tell yourself, at least.)