Naomh Pádraig | Saint Patrick (naomh_padraig) wrote in nevermore_past, @ 2012-07-19 17:44:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | saint george, saint padraig |
Who: Padraig and English!George
What: Someone is in pris-on!
When: November, 1920
Where: London prison and then George's house
Warnings: Probably lots of swearing...
On November 21st, Padraig's comrades in the Irish Republican Army had launched an attack on informants to the crown in Dublin. They had killed 14 informants by the end of the morning and that afternoon England had fought back by driving an armoured vehicle into the middle of a football match and opening fire on the Irish public.
For all of it, Padraig hadn't been there. He had left the IRA in the trusted watch of his American self who had come to Ireland for that very purpose. Padraig had gone to England in order to personally kill one of the higher ups who was responsible for ordering hits on the IRA.
It had not gone as hoped.
One of those bloody informants had tipped the man off and Padraig had walked into a trap. He had been arrested, and now he had very little hope of returning to Ireland any time soon. And any day now, Patrick would snap back to America and Ireland would be left without a Saint Patrick.
George was furious. He was literally seeing red. It tinged the edges of his vision, and he kept snarling without meaning to. He could feel his heartbeat, quick and fast and very angry.
He'd been this way for three days now, and it wasn't showing any signs of letting up.
He handed his badge over to the first set of guards, who inspected it carefully. Everyone working for the Crown who happened to have access to a gun was being especially careful now. Ever since the attack on the football stadium three days earlier that had gone so terribly wrong.
George swallowed a few times, taking his badge back when they handed it to him. He was identifying himself as a member of MI6 these days, to explain the security clearance that he had. No one questioned it. Especially not when George was clearly on the warpath.
They had called him late last night, and he'd driven out immediately. It was still dark outside, and the light inside seemed too bright.
"They think he's something like you, George," the Director General had said. "Not quite human. I need you to see."
George had known immediately, because really, who else could it be? He was just surprised that Padraig had left Ireland while his precious fucking rebellion was going on.
After two more rounds of guards, George finally reached Padraig's cell, which was obligingly opened for him. They were keeping him in solitary confinement, on suicide watch. George cracked his knuckles and stepped inside, the door slamming closed behind him.
"Hello, little brother," George said.
Padraig looked up at his brother and he could see anger in George's eyes before he even noticed anything else. It was instinctive. He stood up, backing into a corner so George wouldn't throttle him.
"George," Padraig said, nodding his head to his brother whom he hadn't seen in years now.
"You know, I never took you for an assassin," George said, voice low and angry. "I thought you were better than that."
Padraig raised his eyebrow at George, his own fury rising. It had been so strange being around the American Patrick last week. He had seen the man he used to be. The calm, logical, spiritual man who's heart hadn't been turned by revolution and tainted by blood.
"If you came here to lecture me, you might as well turn around and leave," Padraig whispered.
"Oh, no," George said, approaching Padraig. "Don't worry. I'm not here to lecture you."
And with that, George cocked back his fist and punched Padraig in the side of the head. His brother's eyes rolled back and he slumped to the floor, George not bother to catch him. He knelt down next to Padraig, pulling a small hypodermic needle out of a case he'd been carrying with him. He rolled up Padraig's sleeve, tapped the needle a few times to get any air bubbles out, and injected the fluid inside into Padraig. It was one of MI6's various concoctions, a witch's brew of tranquilizers and painkillers that would keep Padraig unconcious for quite some time. He'd wake up feeling loopy, to say the least.
George tapped on the door of the cell and asked to use the phone. He had some calls to make, and some things to arrange. He couldn't leave Padraig in prison, and he couldn't let him go. That left only a few options.
Hours later, when Padraig woke up, it would be to find George sitting in a chair across from him. They were in George's house, in the room that Padraig had stayed in last time he'd visited. Except there hadn't been bars on the windows last time, nor had the door locked from the outside. Padraig also hadn't been attached to a long chain, last time.
Awareness came back slowly, and with that came pain. His head ached and his eyes refused to open for long, so he had to struggle to see anything.
He wasn't in the jail cell any more, he was with it enough to see that. Padraig let out a groan and he tried to sit up, but he only fell back against the pillow after managing to make it up only a few centimeters. "George?" he mumbled, since the last thing he remembered was his brother glaring at him. "Whasshappenin'" He tried to move his leg, and he heard the sound of metal rubbing against metal. A chain. And he could make out the hazy image of the room he had stayed in at George's house.
"George?"
Punching Padraig in the head had actually helped calm George down quite a bit. He didn't feel like he was about to lunge at someone's throat, anyway, and so he considered that a positive. So when he answered Padraig, his voice was calmer and not nearly as full of murder as it had been.
"You're at my home. How are you feeling?"
Padraig moved his tongue around and he made a face. It felt too big for his mouth. "Thirsty," he croaked, and then Padraig tried to sit up again, this time managing it.
The room slid in and out of focus, but Padraig could see what was going on even through the haze of whatever crap George had injected him with. "You drugged me," Padraig mumbled around his uncooperative tongue. There were bars on his window and Padraig looked in the direction of his ankle, where he had heard the sound of chains. And yes, indeed, he noted the chains attached to him. "Oh fuck," he groaned, unable to keep himself from cursing.
George picked up the glass of water he'd sat next to him and carried it over to Padraig. He sat down on the edge of the bed, not wanting to loom over Padraig.
The irony of not wanting to upset his brother after punching him and chaining him up was not lost on George.
"Well, I didn't think you'd walk politely out to the car, you being a stubborn bastard," George said. He glanced to the side. "I couldn't leave you in prison, and I can't have you running back to your friends."
Padraig sighed and he took the water from his brother, drinking it down slowly so he didn't accidentally choke himself.
"I would have gone to the car easy enough," Padraig said then, handing the glass back with a smirk which ended in a wince. "Ow. You hit me too, didn't you?"
"Yes," George said, leaning back against the bedpost. "Right in the head." He rubbed his own forehead tiredly. "I'm very cross with you, Padraig."
Padraig pulled his legs up towards him, glad the chain stretched enough that he could. "I can see that," Padraig said, equally tiredly, even though he had just been sleeping. "I'm very cross with your entire damn country. Is the chain really necessary, George?"
"Oh yes," George said, tone indicating that he saw no problem with this. "Do you know what they might have done to you if they'd found out who you really were? All they could figure out is that you were something similar to me, but if they'd know they had Ireland's patron saint in their possession...God, Padraig, what were you thinking?"
Padraig sighed heavily and he rubbed at his eyes, willing them to focus. "I don't know, George. I was thinking your fucking country is running mine into ruin and I can't stand by and let them do all the fighting themselves. The man I came to kill ordered hits on my men's families! Their families, George! Women and children! Anything they could have done to me was worth trying to rid the world of poison like that!"
"Ah, well, that certainly justifies your IRA agents murdering people, then," George said, narrowing his eyes at his brother. "After all, it was British intelligence that started all th--wait, no, that was actually all the IRA's doing. Which I'm sure you didn't know about at all, did you?"
Padraig sighed again. There was no way he could explain this to George, it seemed. "The agents killed informants. Not innocent women and children. And your police force fought back by rolling an armoured vehicle into a football match and shooting yet more innocent civilians! This is war, George! You know war! There have been casualties on both sides, but your men are killing innocent people! Can you even see the difference!?"
"It doesn't have to be a war! It wouldn't be a war if your people wouldn't insist on making it one!" George shouted. He felt his blood pressure start to rise again, and he clenched his jaw and took a deep breath out. He was not going to hit Padraig again. That would be wrong.
"What happened at the football stadium was terrible. But it wouldn't have happened if your IRA boys hadn't started assassinating people."
Padraig shook his head. "You can't blame opening fire on innocent people on me, George. It is a war, and I am aware we started it. I am glad we started it. If your men didn't fight dirty, I wouldn't be here. If the black and tans had retaliated by shooting my men, I would hate it, as you do, but I would understand it as part of war. They opened fire on a football stadium! Unprovoked! Pure, cold-blooded, 'you belong to us' revenge, George. And I would assassinate every single member of your government to get my people away from that kind of thing. Your government has no more regard for us than a slave-owner would his slave. Now let me go!"
George's hands curled into fists, but he kept them firmly at his sides. He was not going to take this out on his brother, no matter how stubborn his brother was being.
"No. You're not leaving until I feel like letting you go."
"You're really going to keep me chained to a bed, George? Are you going to torture me for information too? I'm not going to say a word."
"Firstly," George bit out, "you are not chained to a bed. You are chained and on a bed, because putting you on the floor would have been rude. Secondly, I'm not going to torture you, you ass. You're in protective custody."
"Protective custody!? George, let me go home!" He had a revolution to help run. They were winning now. They were getting support. He was needed elsewhere.
"You can't keep me here!" Padraig wasn't worried he would be treated harshly. This was George. That didn't mean he wanted to stay.
"No," George said firmly, crossing his arms. "It's either this, or you'd be in jail. And I'm not going to let you languish in prison, so here we are. You aren't going back to your rebellion."
Padraig raised his eyebrows at his brother. Oh he was going back. He was going...eventually. When he figured out how to get out of here.
"Dammit," Padraig said, breathing defeat. Then he grabbed a pillow and threw it roughly at George's head, even though the movement made him feel sick to his stomach. Then he said, "oh urgh, I think I'm going to be sick all over your floor."
George let the pillow hit him, since he figured he probably deserved a pillow to the face. At Padraig's next words, he leapt off the bed.
"Oh hell, wait a moment." He darted out into the hallway and grabbed a trash bin from the end of the hall, running back into the room afterwards.
Padraig did manage to wait until George returned and the trash bin was in place, but only just. Then he leaned over and voided the contents of his stomach before groaning and lowering himself slowly to the mattress.
"Argghhh fuck you for drugging me. I need more water," Padraig moaned.
George rubbed Padraig's back, wincing as he retched. When Padraig finally stopped throwing up, George brushed his brother's hair back out of his face.
"I'll go get you some more water," George said. "Try to get some sleep, the effects should wear off soon."
Without thinking too much about it, Padraig reached out for George's shirt with a flailing hand and he only just managed to catch him. He lifted his head and he groaned again slightly from the illness the movement caused. "Will you stay in here with me while I sleep?" It was only said in a moment of weakness and only because he had been drugged. Normally he wouldn't have admitted his fears.
He may have been pissed off George was doing this to him, and he may have currently loathed George's country with a passion, but he loved George. He didn't want to be chained up without his brother there, even if it was his brother who had done it to him.
George nodded, feeling choked up. Voice rougher than he would have liked, he said, "Of course. I'll be right here when you wake up."