ladyfoxxx: (peterick - secret boyfriends)
ladyfoxxx ([personal profile] ladyfoxxx) wrote2010-11-28 12:24 am
Entry tags:

Fic: There And Gone (Part 2/2, Pete/Patrick for the pxp_flashbang)

Continued from Part One


Epilogue

Patrick's drafting his resignation letter. He does this a few times a day. It calms him. He hasn't gotten to the point of printing it out and submitting it yet, but that's just because he doesn't know what he'll do after he leaves his job. He will leave, just as soon as he figures that part out.

He's down to the yours sincerely sign off when his phone trills. He reaches for the receiver and mutters a droll greeting.

"Is this Patrick Stump?" The perky female voice at the other end of the line asks.

"This is he." Patrick reports, stabbing his name into the keyboard.

"This is Penny from United Airlines, I'm calling about your lost luggage. We have your suitcase here from your recent flight from Russia?"

Patrick chokes on his own spit at the word 'Russia'. "I'm sorry?" He hasn't left the country in years.

Penny sighs, sounding put out. "You reported via email that your suitcase was misplaced? Well we've located it, and we have it here at Dulles International. You can come and pick it up, or we can have it delivered to you for a nominal charge."

Patrick's fingers are frozen on the keyboard and he nearly drops the phone. "My flight from Russia?" He stammers.

"Yes, you were on the UA964 service from Moscow to Washington three days ago. Your suitcase wasn't. It's arrived on a later service and we have it here for you now." Penny is starting to slow her speech like Patrick is special needs. Patrick is feeling pretty special needs right about now because what the fuck?

"I. Um. I'll come by and collect it then?" He utters haltingly, mind still spinning around the word Russia. His hands are shaking a little and his heart is pounding so hard it feels like his ribcage is rattling.

"Just look for the United Airlines desk at Concourse C. Have a nice day."

Patrick sits frozen for a long time, gripping the phone to his ear in a trembling hand and staring into space. Without any real thought, he takes a breath and presses 'print'. He signs the document and leaves it on his desk, striding out of the office. By the time he gets down the elevator and onto the ground floor, he's nearly running.

He flags down a taxi and goes straight to Dulles International. He's doing his level best not to think about anything and mostly succeeding.

He steps up to the United Airlines desk, drumming his fingers on the counter until he gets served by a bored, business-like woman with a hard face and too-bright lipstick.

The suitcase, when she hands it over, is fairly non-descript, black and medium sized, only slightly battered. Patrick nods like he recognises it even though he's never laid eyes on it. He fills out the form the woman behind the counter pushes at him and carries the suitcase to a bench outside.

He's not sure what he's expecting to find inside it, a bomb? A circus midget? He unzips the case and opens it, pawing through the contents to find everything you'd expect a traveller to pack: clothes, toiletries, shoes. It doesn't look like a suitcase for a trip to Russia, however. It's full of warm weather gear - Hawaiian shirts, cargo shorts, swim trunks, flip flops, sunscreen. Sitting at the top of the case is a Lonely Planet guide to Jamaica. Patrick lifts it out of the case, staring at the book in his hand, puzzled.

A piece of card flutters from between the pages. He catches it clumsily before it hits the floor, turning it in his hands. It's a postcard, showing an idyllic beach scene, the words "Wish you were here" scrawled across the sky. When he turns it over there's the name and location of the photographed beach printed up in the corner. The area to write a message and address is blank.

Patrick stares at the postcard until his eyes start to defocus. His brain scrambles to put the pieces together. He knows what he wants it to mean, but is that what it means?

He opens the Lonely Planet book to put the postcard back inside. The pages fall open easily to a centre page, marked by an unusual bookmark. He tugs the object from between the pages, barely able to process what it is.

It's a small pink drink umbrella.

All Patrick's breath rushes out between his teeth and he closes his eyes. Blood thrums through his body in a rush of relief and a sentiment he hasn't felt in far too long: hope. He presses the pink drink umbrella back between the pages of the book with infinite care, before putting it back into the case and zipping it closed.

He picks up the suitcase and approaches the counter again.

"I'd like to buy a one way ticket to Jamaica."


~end



The Bagman's Gambit - The Decemberists
On the lam from the law
on the steps of the capitol
you shot a plainclothes cop on the ten o'clock
and I saw momentarily
they flashed a photograph, it couldn't be you
you'd been abused so horribly
but you were there in some anonymous room
and I recall that fall
I was working for the government
and in a bathroom stall off the National Mall
how we kissed so sweetly
how could I refuse a favor or two
for a tryst in the greenery
I gave you documents and microfilm, too

And from my ten floor tenement
where once our bodies lay
how I long to hear you say
no, they'll never catch me now
no, they'll never catch me
no, they cannot catch me now
we will escape somehow
somehow

It was late one night
I was awoken by the telephone
I heard a strangled cry on the end of the line
purloined in Petrograd
they were suspicious of where your loyalties lay
so I paid off a bureaucrat
to convince your captors they're to secret you away

And at the gate of the embassy
our hands met through the bars
as your whisper stilled my heart
no, they'll never catch me now
no, they'll never catch me
no, they cannot catch me now
we will escape somehow
somehow

And I dreamt one night
you were there in force
head held high
in uniform

It was ten years on
when you resurfaced in a motorcar
with the wave of an arm
you were there and gone

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