someone please title this for me | a story

this is a lil thing i wrote

i’ve been trying to write more often, (because i literally haven’t tapped away at these keys in a lifetime) and i’ve had a couple photo prompts lying around on my computer (because my computer is literally a mess and it’s wearing me thin), and i’ve wanted to try experimenting with writing different emotions at a very high level, like with no chill (but i usually only write about sad people so), and this happened. it’s kinda like the man from u.n.c.l.e but like, angrier.

hehe

“Ah, Atticus. Good to see you.”

Atticus glanced up as Mr. Ritchie approached. A thin, nervous man, Mr. Ritchie’s British accent always seemed to grow more apparent when he was stressed. He was stressed now. 

Atticus frowned, standing to shake the man’s hand. Mr. Ritchie was a tall man, but he still rose a foot above when they were standing side by side. 

“What was it you called me for, sir?” he asked, trying to push down his pent-up impatience.

“In time, my good man,” his supervisor smiled. “Just follow me.”

He lead Atticus through the door that he had been staring at for the part quarter of an hour and down a hallway.

“As you may know, we at the bureau have been trying to find you a replacement partner for the longest time. With much thought and deliberation we have decided to change your current mission to something new entirely. 

“We have an inside man who you’re going to be put with; together we have several assignments for the both of you. He’s a con-man, you’re an agent. Together we hope you can bring down the worst of what we’re dealing with at the moment.”

“Who’s the man?” 

Mr. Ritchie smiled, stopping at another door. He gestured to Atticus to follow him as he opened the door.

“Him,” he said.

“You,” Atticus spat. 

The man on the other side of the wooden table smiled, a dark smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. He smelled like gasoline and smoke—a dangerous combination, Atticus thought.  

This man he had seen before—posted on wanted papers on every pin board in the office. They updated every so often—another scar, a different haircut—but it was the same man. The beard was new though. It made him look more villainous. Mr. Ritchie had called him a con man. The terms made him want to laugh. This was no innocent pocket-thief, this was a full blown criminal. He had been associated with gangs all over the country, but they had never been able to lay a finger on his location. Atticus wanted to put a bullet through his head. 

“Atticus,” Mr. Ritchie said warningly. 

Atticus glanced up, surprised to see his gun in his hand and pointed directly at the man in black. 

“Put the gun down,” Mr. Ritchie finished.

Atticus held it steady for a moment longer, anxious to see a glimmer of fear in the man’s eyes. He was disappointed. The dark man raised an eyebrow after a moment, as if to say, “are you going to risk a reprimand from your supervisor, just so you can try intimidate me? It’s not working, buddy.” 

Atticus lowered his hand, furious, and returned the gun to his belt. Every muscle in his body resisted the action, screaming for him to pull the trigger. Hatred, red-hot and scalding, poured through him and stained the words that were spilling out of his heart and into the open.

“What is that, that—“ he swallowed back the first word that came to mind and focused on Mr. Ritchie. His voice lowered to a menacing rumble. “What is he doing here?”

“I hoped I had already made myself clear,” his supervisor said, turning his attention to the file in front of him. “This here is Bazille Toulouse Pava. He’s your new partner.” 

Atticus cursed and slapped a palm against the table.

“Je ne peux pas croire que cela se passe,” he muttered in French. Then, turning to Bazille, he raised an accusing finger and began rattling away in his native language. “Tu as tout foutu en l'air, ne sois pas trop confiant que je ne te tuerai pas—”

“Alright, alright, no fair.” The man in black raised his hands. “Don’t yell at me in languages I don’t understand. Help me level the playing field here, buddy.”

“Don’t talk to me,” Atticus spat. “I don’t know if I want to shoot you or quit my job.”

“Can I choose?” Bazille was grinning, and Atticus’s fingers itched to reach for his gun again. Everything this man did grated on him. To think of all the things he had committed made Atticus want to live the rest of his days in an underground bunker rather than spend another moment with him. He scowled, running his knuckles through his hair.

Bazille chuckled and glanced around at the empty walls. “I’m picking up on a lot of bitterness in this room,” he said. “Are you sure he doesn’t need a therapist, Mr. Ritchie?”

“I don’t need a therapist.” Blood was pounding. He needed to get away from this man. “I need bad things to stop happening and ticking me off.”

Atticus leaned across the table, resting his forearms against the wood and steepling his fingers. “You listen to me very carefully, Mr. Pava—”

“I am listening. I just don’t care.” Bazille leaned forward as well, his dark eyes glittering. For the first time Atticus caught side of the man’s simmering rage. So he didn’t like the way things had turned out either. Surprising. A man would have thought he would have desperate to get out of the slammer, no matter what it entailed. “Whatever you say, whatever you do, you won’t be able to change this arrangement. We work together now, for better or for worse.”

“Worse, mostly,” said Mr. Ritchie, “judging from the way this is going.” 

Bazille hardly glanced at the old man; his stare was fixed on Atticus. It was unnerving, the way the man could go so long without blinking. Atticus could see a jagged scar underneath the stubble on his jawline.  They had missed that one on the wanted poster. A muscle there clenched slightly. Bazille rose halfway out of his chair, his lip curled in a grin.  

“I’m getting angry,” he rumbled. “I don’t do angry. It messes with my chill.”

Chill? Atticus scoffed. Does this man even have a chill?

“Well, that’s fine then, because my feelings are very subtle. I hate you.” Atticus shrugged a shoulder and leaned back, breaking the eye contact. Bazille leapt an inch forward, but before he could move any more, Atticus had his gun cocked and aimed directly between his eyes.

“Do something that reminds me why I want to kill you,” he growled. “Please.”

“Boys, boys,” Mr. Ritchie placated. His accent grew thicker with the tension. He placed his hands between them, his file folder fluttering shut. “Come now. Let’s settle this as men.” He turned to Bazille, offering an apologetic smile. “My good man, nothing of that needs to be taken personally.”

Bazille rested against the back of his chair casually, but Atticus noted the way his breath hitched, how his fingers gripped the arms and knotted his knuckled with the effort. That was a man preparing to pounce, he thought.

“Sorry,  but I’m gonna be honest,” his jaw clenched, “I’m taking this kinda personally.”