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jedibuttercupT; The Beekeeper. Post-canon; Verona/Adam, 2400 words, for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
launchtheship.
Verona thought about that last look she'd exchanged with Adam Clay for a long, long time.
Title: Sweet to the Soul
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the world is not.
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Post-movie for The Beekeeper (2024)
Notes: Originally posted July 20. I do realize Josh Hutcherson was also in this movie. But how has no one yet paired Jason Statham's avenger character with the FBI agent chasing him down, especially since it's her mother's death he's avenging? Well, I guess that's what this challenge is for....
Verona thought about that last look she'd exchanged with Adam Clay for a long, long time. 2400 words.
Verona thought about that last look she'd exchanged with Adam Clay for a long, long time. The scene kept replaying itself in scattered idle moments whenever she had nothing more urgent to focus on: the gunshot, the shattering glass, the scramble to act before he disappeared again, the way he'd glanced back toward her as she'd barked his name. There'd been a level of surety and appreciation there that she was really fucking sure somebody who'd just killed the President's son had no business displaying. She'd had him in her sights; had he really not had any qualms that she'd fire? Or had it really not mattered to him, given that he'd already achieved his goal?
Or close enough for the time being, at any rate. She still wasn't sure, either, whether her concerns that he might be into the bee mythology enough to target the queen for her defective offspring's faults had merit, or if Derek Danforth's idiotic decision to turn his gun on his own mother had put a last-minute thumb on whatever scale Clay was using to judge threats to 'the system'. It was some real John Wick-level High Table type shit, and as dizzying as it still was to think about the fact that that was all real to a degree that terrified experienced mercenaries and ex-CIA directors alike, Deputy Director Prigg's reactions prior to the whole mess had been ... clarifying. Whether Derek Danforth actually had been Clay's ultimate target or if he'd gone to the Danforth beach home initially planning to take down Madam President as well, Verona had no doubt he was still out there, watching and assessing the fallout just the same as she was.
But it wasn't any of that wary calculation that kept bringing that one scene back to her, out of all of the fraught encounters she and the retired Beekeeper had shared in a couple of very crazy days; she was self-aware enough to at least admit that much to herself. For a handful of heartbeats, she'd held her aim as the slight breeze off the water tugged at the man's bloodied gray suit, and he'd simply stood there, staring right back as if submitting himself to her judgment. But even with the President's anguished cries ringing in her ears, looking into that steely, accepting gaze, she hadn't been able to will herself to fire. Because there was a level of surety and appreciation there that she had no fucking business feeling for somebody who'd done what he'd just done, either. Verona had let the muzzle of the rifle droop ... and he'd given her a faint quirk of mouth and a respectful nod, then turned and threw himself casually over the mansion's exterior railing, dropping out of sight toward the rocky beach below.
From there, he'd disappeared into thin air. Between the cleanup, the funerals – the one she had to plan herself, and the two she couldn't get out of attending – and all the other fallout, both public and private, she hadn't had the chance to chase him any further herself. But she'd set up a few alerts, just in case. And tried not to snap back too hard at Wiley's wry comments, whenever he caught her letting her attention drift.
After all of that ... well, bereavement leave existed for a reason, vengeance hadn't refilled her mother's empty accounts, and there was no way she could both pay her own rent and the expenses for the house on just her salary, so she'd decided to take a few days to clear her head and start the process of packing up a lifetime's worth of memories. Some things went quicker than others; she hadn't been able to face her mother's bedroom yet, or the living room with the empty space where Eloise's favorite chair had been, but the bookshelves emptied nicely into boxes, and all those worn pots and pans Mom had kept because they still had a little life left in them? Yeah, those were easy enough to toss in a bin for Goodwill or the dump.
Her phone buzzed as she started sorting the coffee mugs, and she glanced down at the notice on the lock screen with a satisfied huff. "Fucking thought so," she said, shaking her head.
Clay might have taken out the local call center, the headquarters that managed it, and the head of the company that had used the dirty money it produced to fund his mother's election campaign, but there'd been nineteen other call centers out there run by Derek Danforth's minions, and as far as Verona knew the President had yet to say anything publicly that might lead to them being permanently shut down. Another call center going up in smoke, although without any fatalities this time? Yeah, she'd say that was a clue. Verona smiled to herself, then went back to her sorting, wondering if there'd finally be movement on that score, now. Not that she'd be saying anything.
You decide who you work for, Clay had said to her there at the last. The law, or for justice.
Well, she might have sworn an oath, but the worst hadn't come to pass, those who held that oath had let her down, and you know what, she had her limits. Clay had taken the effort to disarm her partner, rather than hurt him. For all the brutal deaths he'd delivered to Derek Danforth's mercenaries and minions, he'd made an effort to avoid deliberately injuring uninvolved bystanders and tried to disable rather than kill any other law enforcement agents where possible. And the very first thing he'd ever said to her had been, Verona, I'm sorry.
There was a world out there where the hack had never happened, where she'd shown up for dinner at her mother's that night and Clay had shown up with his jar of honey and Mom had beamed at them both as they shared stilted getting-to-know-you conversation. Or where he really had been just a beekeeper, lowercase 'b', and the morning after the terrible discovery and not-so-meet-cute arrest they'd exchanged numbers during her coffee apology and bonded over shared reminiscences like any number of other people would have. But the hack had happened. And they weren't just anyone. She was an FBI agent, and he was a Beekeeper with a capital 'B'.
She pulled another mug from the shelf, tinted gold on the inside with a little winged repeating pattern and cursive words on the cream-colored outside, and felt her mouth curve in a smile. "'Kind words are like honey, sweet to the soul'. You really did care for my mother," Verona mused to herself.
She didn't quite realize she'd been half-expecting an answer until a gruff voice spoke up from behind her, and rather than flinch or reach for the nearest knife she felt something knotted relax in her shoulders.
"I couldn't remember the last time anyone had tried to take care of me. Maybe I did remind her a bit of your brother. But she didn't have to keep trying to feed me, or find me little things to do to count against my rent, or share her photos and stories without ever pressing about why I had none of my own. She was everything men like me exist to defend. And she was Eloise. I only wish I'd had more to give back."
Verona turned with the mug in her hands, raking her eyes over the slightly soot-stained figure in the doorway. The scratches he'd taken diving through the window of the Danforth mansion were gone, and he stood straight and relaxed, without any sign of other lingering injuries. There'd been enough blood evidence at the scene that had pulled up only blanks in all their databases that she'd been just a little worried, but he looked reassuringly healthy. Dressed down today in jeans, a farmer-style flannel shirt, and a ball cap, with slightly bruised-looking knuckles and a faint scent of gasoline hanging around him. Maybe a decade older than her, but ten times as deadly, and all that intensity focused on her.
Her pulse jumped a little, and she swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. Well, that was one way to confirm she had a serious competence kink. Pity it was so hard to find men who qualified these days. "Hey. Took you long enough. You still going by Adam Clay, or is there some other name I should be using?"
"Current ID might say Luke," he admitted, mouth curving in a wry smile. "But you can still call me Clay. Answered to it for enough years. And I would've acted sooner, but I was waiting to see if they'd leave everything shut down or spin it all back up again. Guess I've got some more work to do."
"Pretty sure you shouldn't be admitting that to an FBI agent," she replied, wryly. "But lucky for you, I'm currently on leave."
"Lucky for me," he repeated, the lines at the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling with humor. "Going to sell, then? Have to say, I've been hoping Danforth Enterprises would make good, but I'm not terribly surprised at the lack of public acknowledgment so far."
"Even if they do go there, whatever settlement they might offer probably won't come fast enough to make up the shortfall in taxes and utilities and funeral expenses and what have you. Especially without any rental income coming in." Verona tipped the mug toward him, then set it back on the counter. "It is what it is. I try to tell myself I would have advised her to enjoy spending every penny of her savings and leave nothing for me anyway, but then I picture that little asshole burning in hell, and that's a much better consolation."
Clay gave her an approving nod, moving a little further into the room. His heavy-duty work boots looked well used but left no marks on the tile; Verona pictured him carefully cleaning them at her mother's front door and felt something behind her ribs wobble at the thought.
"Two down, eighteen to go, at least until I figure out the next step," he acknowledged. "I don't have quite the information resources I used to, and someone had to've given Derek Danforth his bright idea. He didn't strike me as the hard-working type, and from their reactions to my presence, it seems unlikely to have been his mother or Westwyld. Whoever that is is likely to be the one behind the renewed activity."
"I don't have quite the access I did before either – the new deputy director booted me off the case immediately for conflict of interest – but for what it's worth, I agree," she said, leaning back against the counter and resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest. It had been a long time since she'd indulged these particular instincts, but the last thing she wanted was for defensive body language to scare Clay off. The frisson of danger currently lighting up her nerves was a plus in this case, not a deal-breaker.
"One thing I do still have," he said, shifting the subject as he came to a halt an arm's length away. "Financial resources. I had enough of my own when I retired, and I appropriated the newest Beekeeper's when they sent her after me. If I could without drawing attention, I'd restore your mother's losses at least, but I'll have to find some other way to funnel donations back into her charity. As for the house, though. Say someone rents the spare bedroom instead of the barn and looks after the place for you while you're in Boston. Full market value. Would that help?"
Verona's gut wobbled again, and she gave him a slow smile, biting at her lower lip. "Someone named Luke?" she suggested. "And what about when I'm not in Boston? How might this Luke feel about sharing?"
Clay's eyes dropped to her mouth; something like surprise flickered briefly over his expression – had he not realized that her mother had obviously been preparing to set them up, and that Verona wasn't exactly opposed now that she'd had time to assess the situation? She didn't think he had someone else already, not with what he'd said about no-one caring for him in a while, but maybe he was otherwise inclined – but then his gaze snapped back up to meet hers, and the sudden kindling awareness there banished any doubts.
"I think he might be open to negotiation," he said, huskily. He reached out slowly, giving her plenty of time to dodge him if she'd wanted to, and settled those big, callused hands on her hips. "But not out of gratitude, or keeping tabs on the opposition."
She rolled her eyes, settling her own hands on his firmly muscled flanks. She'd probably never know what he'd done for a living before a certain beyond-classified agency had swallowed his original identity, but she could admire what it had done for his physique. "What opposition? That Beekeeper guy everyone was so worried about, he probably drowned trying to get away from the Danforth estate. Good thing a handyman with an apiary hobby happened to show up around here when he did. Somebody's going to have to help me rebuild the barn that guy burned down, after all."
"Is that so," he replied, warmly amused, taking that last step fully into her personal space. He made a long, lean line of warmth against her body, only an inch or two of difference between their heights.
"I lost my virginity in that barn, you know," she teased back. "This place isn't the same without it. Though I might have to insist on christening the new one too, just to keep things consistent."
Clay's gaze grew more intent at the hint. "Well, if you insist. Been a while since I stuck around someplace long enough to make those kinds of memories. Are you sure about this, Verona?"
Since he had a home, he meant. But that was something for future Verona to think about; for now, her hormones were enough to be getting on with. "Sure enough," she replied, rolling her eyes. "So shut the fuck up and kiss me."
He finally took the hint and did.
And if that kiss was any sign of things to come ... well, future Verona might just be a very lucky woman indeed.
(x-posted @ AO3)
launchtheship.Verona thought about that last look she'd exchanged with Adam Clay for a long, long time.
Title: Sweet to the Soul
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the world is not.
Rating: T/PG-13
Spoilers: Post-movie for The Beekeeper (2024)
Notes: Originally posted July 20. I do realize Josh Hutcherson was also in this movie. But how has no one yet paired Jason Statham's avenger character with the FBI agent chasing him down, especially since it's her mother's death he's avenging? Well, I guess that's what this challenge is for....
Verona thought about that last look she'd exchanged with Adam Clay for a long, long time. 2400 words.
Verona thought about that last look she'd exchanged with Adam Clay for a long, long time. The scene kept replaying itself in scattered idle moments whenever she had nothing more urgent to focus on: the gunshot, the shattering glass, the scramble to act before he disappeared again, the way he'd glanced back toward her as she'd barked his name. There'd been a level of surety and appreciation there that she was really fucking sure somebody who'd just killed the President's son had no business displaying. She'd had him in her sights; had he really not had any qualms that she'd fire? Or had it really not mattered to him, given that he'd already achieved his goal?
Or close enough for the time being, at any rate. She still wasn't sure, either, whether her concerns that he might be into the bee mythology enough to target the queen for her defective offspring's faults had merit, or if Derek Danforth's idiotic decision to turn his gun on his own mother had put a last-minute thumb on whatever scale Clay was using to judge threats to 'the system'. It was some real John Wick-level High Table type shit, and as dizzying as it still was to think about the fact that that was all real to a degree that terrified experienced mercenaries and ex-CIA directors alike, Deputy Director Prigg's reactions prior to the whole mess had been ... clarifying. Whether Derek Danforth actually had been Clay's ultimate target or if he'd gone to the Danforth beach home initially planning to take down Madam President as well, Verona had no doubt he was still out there, watching and assessing the fallout just the same as she was.
But it wasn't any of that wary calculation that kept bringing that one scene back to her, out of all of the fraught encounters she and the retired Beekeeper had shared in a couple of very crazy days; she was self-aware enough to at least admit that much to herself. For a handful of heartbeats, she'd held her aim as the slight breeze off the water tugged at the man's bloodied gray suit, and he'd simply stood there, staring right back as if submitting himself to her judgment. But even with the President's anguished cries ringing in her ears, looking into that steely, accepting gaze, she hadn't been able to will herself to fire. Because there was a level of surety and appreciation there that she had no fucking business feeling for somebody who'd done what he'd just done, either. Verona had let the muzzle of the rifle droop ... and he'd given her a faint quirk of mouth and a respectful nod, then turned and threw himself casually over the mansion's exterior railing, dropping out of sight toward the rocky beach below.
From there, he'd disappeared into thin air. Between the cleanup, the funerals – the one she had to plan herself, and the two she couldn't get out of attending – and all the other fallout, both public and private, she hadn't had the chance to chase him any further herself. But she'd set up a few alerts, just in case. And tried not to snap back too hard at Wiley's wry comments, whenever he caught her letting her attention drift.
After all of that ... well, bereavement leave existed for a reason, vengeance hadn't refilled her mother's empty accounts, and there was no way she could both pay her own rent and the expenses for the house on just her salary, so she'd decided to take a few days to clear her head and start the process of packing up a lifetime's worth of memories. Some things went quicker than others; she hadn't been able to face her mother's bedroom yet, or the living room with the empty space where Eloise's favorite chair had been, but the bookshelves emptied nicely into boxes, and all those worn pots and pans Mom had kept because they still had a little life left in them? Yeah, those were easy enough to toss in a bin for Goodwill or the dump.
Her phone buzzed as she started sorting the coffee mugs, and she glanced down at the notice on the lock screen with a satisfied huff. "Fucking thought so," she said, shaking her head.
Clay might have taken out the local call center, the headquarters that managed it, and the head of the company that had used the dirty money it produced to fund his mother's election campaign, but there'd been nineteen other call centers out there run by Derek Danforth's minions, and as far as Verona knew the President had yet to say anything publicly that might lead to them being permanently shut down. Another call center going up in smoke, although without any fatalities this time? Yeah, she'd say that was a clue. Verona smiled to herself, then went back to her sorting, wondering if there'd finally be movement on that score, now. Not that she'd be saying anything.
You decide who you work for, Clay had said to her there at the last. The law, or for justice.
Well, she might have sworn an oath, but the worst hadn't come to pass, those who held that oath had let her down, and you know what, she had her limits. Clay had taken the effort to disarm her partner, rather than hurt him. For all the brutal deaths he'd delivered to Derek Danforth's mercenaries and minions, he'd made an effort to avoid deliberately injuring uninvolved bystanders and tried to disable rather than kill any other law enforcement agents where possible. And the very first thing he'd ever said to her had been, Verona, I'm sorry.
There was a world out there where the hack had never happened, where she'd shown up for dinner at her mother's that night and Clay had shown up with his jar of honey and Mom had beamed at them both as they shared stilted getting-to-know-you conversation. Or where he really had been just a beekeeper, lowercase 'b', and the morning after the terrible discovery and not-so-meet-cute arrest they'd exchanged numbers during her coffee apology and bonded over shared reminiscences like any number of other people would have. But the hack had happened. And they weren't just anyone. She was an FBI agent, and he was a Beekeeper with a capital 'B'.
She pulled another mug from the shelf, tinted gold on the inside with a little winged repeating pattern and cursive words on the cream-colored outside, and felt her mouth curve in a smile. "'Kind words are like honey, sweet to the soul'. You really did care for my mother," Verona mused to herself.
She didn't quite realize she'd been half-expecting an answer until a gruff voice spoke up from behind her, and rather than flinch or reach for the nearest knife she felt something knotted relax in her shoulders.
"I couldn't remember the last time anyone had tried to take care of me. Maybe I did remind her a bit of your brother. But she didn't have to keep trying to feed me, or find me little things to do to count against my rent, or share her photos and stories without ever pressing about why I had none of my own. She was everything men like me exist to defend. And she was Eloise. I only wish I'd had more to give back."
Verona turned with the mug in her hands, raking her eyes over the slightly soot-stained figure in the doorway. The scratches he'd taken diving through the window of the Danforth mansion were gone, and he stood straight and relaxed, without any sign of other lingering injuries. There'd been enough blood evidence at the scene that had pulled up only blanks in all their databases that she'd been just a little worried, but he looked reassuringly healthy. Dressed down today in jeans, a farmer-style flannel shirt, and a ball cap, with slightly bruised-looking knuckles and a faint scent of gasoline hanging around him. Maybe a decade older than her, but ten times as deadly, and all that intensity focused on her.
Her pulse jumped a little, and she swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. Well, that was one way to confirm she had a serious competence kink. Pity it was so hard to find men who qualified these days. "Hey. Took you long enough. You still going by Adam Clay, or is there some other name I should be using?"
"Current ID might say Luke," he admitted, mouth curving in a wry smile. "But you can still call me Clay. Answered to it for enough years. And I would've acted sooner, but I was waiting to see if they'd leave everything shut down or spin it all back up again. Guess I've got some more work to do."
"Pretty sure you shouldn't be admitting that to an FBI agent," she replied, wryly. "But lucky for you, I'm currently on leave."
"Lucky for me," he repeated, the lines at the corners of his hazel eyes crinkling with humor. "Going to sell, then? Have to say, I've been hoping Danforth Enterprises would make good, but I'm not terribly surprised at the lack of public acknowledgment so far."
"Even if they do go there, whatever settlement they might offer probably won't come fast enough to make up the shortfall in taxes and utilities and funeral expenses and what have you. Especially without any rental income coming in." Verona tipped the mug toward him, then set it back on the counter. "It is what it is. I try to tell myself I would have advised her to enjoy spending every penny of her savings and leave nothing for me anyway, but then I picture that little asshole burning in hell, and that's a much better consolation."
Clay gave her an approving nod, moving a little further into the room. His heavy-duty work boots looked well used but left no marks on the tile; Verona pictured him carefully cleaning them at her mother's front door and felt something behind her ribs wobble at the thought.
"Two down, eighteen to go, at least until I figure out the next step," he acknowledged. "I don't have quite the information resources I used to, and someone had to've given Derek Danforth his bright idea. He didn't strike me as the hard-working type, and from their reactions to my presence, it seems unlikely to have been his mother or Westwyld. Whoever that is is likely to be the one behind the renewed activity."
"I don't have quite the access I did before either – the new deputy director booted me off the case immediately for conflict of interest – but for what it's worth, I agree," she said, leaning back against the counter and resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest. It had been a long time since she'd indulged these particular instincts, but the last thing she wanted was for defensive body language to scare Clay off. The frisson of danger currently lighting up her nerves was a plus in this case, not a deal-breaker.
"One thing I do still have," he said, shifting the subject as he came to a halt an arm's length away. "Financial resources. I had enough of my own when I retired, and I appropriated the newest Beekeeper's when they sent her after me. If I could without drawing attention, I'd restore your mother's losses at least, but I'll have to find some other way to funnel donations back into her charity. As for the house, though. Say someone rents the spare bedroom instead of the barn and looks after the place for you while you're in Boston. Full market value. Would that help?"
Verona's gut wobbled again, and she gave him a slow smile, biting at her lower lip. "Someone named Luke?" she suggested. "And what about when I'm not in Boston? How might this Luke feel about sharing?"
Clay's eyes dropped to her mouth; something like surprise flickered briefly over his expression – had he not realized that her mother had obviously been preparing to set them up, and that Verona wasn't exactly opposed now that she'd had time to assess the situation? She didn't think he had someone else already, not with what he'd said about no-one caring for him in a while, but maybe he was otherwise inclined – but then his gaze snapped back up to meet hers, and the sudden kindling awareness there banished any doubts.
"I think he might be open to negotiation," he said, huskily. He reached out slowly, giving her plenty of time to dodge him if she'd wanted to, and settled those big, callused hands on her hips. "But not out of gratitude, or keeping tabs on the opposition."
She rolled her eyes, settling her own hands on his firmly muscled flanks. She'd probably never know what he'd done for a living before a certain beyond-classified agency had swallowed his original identity, but she could admire what it had done for his physique. "What opposition? That Beekeeper guy everyone was so worried about, he probably drowned trying to get away from the Danforth estate. Good thing a handyman with an apiary hobby happened to show up around here when he did. Somebody's going to have to help me rebuild the barn that guy burned down, after all."
"Is that so," he replied, warmly amused, taking that last step fully into her personal space. He made a long, lean line of warmth against her body, only an inch or two of difference between their heights.
"I lost my virginity in that barn, you know," she teased back. "This place isn't the same without it. Though I might have to insist on christening the new one too, just to keep things consistent."
Clay's gaze grew more intent at the hint. "Well, if you insist. Been a while since I stuck around someplace long enough to make those kinds of memories. Are you sure about this, Verona?"
Since he had a home, he meant. But that was something for future Verona to think about; for now, her hormones were enough to be getting on with. "Sure enough," she replied, rolling her eyes. "So shut the fuck up and kiss me."
He finally took the hint and did.
And if that kiss was any sign of things to come ... well, future Verona might just be a very lucky woman indeed.
(x-posted @ AO3)
