DS Louise Gardiner (AU) [Ashes To Ashes (BBC)] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doomed_copper) wrote2012-11-14 11:15 am
doomed_copper) wrote2012-11-14 11:15 am
Contra Naturam, Chapter 1:
Pairing: Jim Keats/Louise Gardiner
Rating: PG-13
Contains: adult themes
Spoilers: none (Series ended over a year ago)
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine; I just bend them to do what I want. :)
Summary: This is now the full story that I wanted to build from the short drabble 'Promised You A Miracle'. It is a work in progress, with no EDC. Detective Sergeant Louise Gardiner was now Jim Keats' worst nightmare: would he be able to stop her rudderless ship from crashing into his carefully-constructed dominion?
He didn't have to work that hard. She was already his, from the moment her soul entered his body, the game beginning the second he offered his gloved hand to her on an empty, deserted street soon after. Months and months had gone by, her slowly forgetting the past once again and her memory now only of two things: the present, and the future. Her situation could almost be described as a form of indentured slavery, all-consuming, and the consumption done solely by him.
Like all the others, she'd begun life at Fenchurch West on secondment to his department, the Serious Crime Division. All of them had been groomed by him as prototypes for his vision but had resulted in disappointment; so many souls, so many abject failures. Jim Keats sat alone at the desk in his office with the door closed, oblivious to the buzz happening just outside. His mind didn't wander often; he didn't allow it. He normally operated on few speeds: precision, organisation, and in accordance with the law. Well, that is to say, his law, which was by no means fair, and by no means lawful...not that anyone ever seemed to notice. He chuckled briefly at the thought before it passed and the thought of a litany of failed 'projects' took its place: DC Abbie Michaels...DC Kate Janis...DS Robbie Cleves...Sergeant Viv James...DI Geoff Bevan. Even DCI Derek Litton had fallen short. He had expected so much from this department, and it seemed all they were capable of was holding up the bar at the clubhouse night after night, only to turn around and hand in mediocre performances the following day. Keats shook his head, the anger fuming within.
Abbie Michaels had held the most promise; her arrogant, narcissistic nature making her a shoo-in for Keats' ultimate perversion--the perfect, sex-on-wheels corrupt copper who'd do anything for a collar. Oh, the transformation had been so much fun to watch: her deadened, ash-blonde hair turning into a coiffed, brassy 'do, her pantsuits morphing into miniskirts, her skin now a beautiful, yet heavily-made up shade of porcelain. Her lips became highly-glossed, almost like glass, and her enviable figure had men across the department lusting after her. She'd been Keats' favourite toy. That is, until her behaviour became obnoxious; Keats had initially been amused at her barroom antics, but later on it had become a stinging bee in his bonnet. She was, simply, nothing but an empty-headed whore. His dismissal of her, both professionally and physically, had devastated her to the point of insanity; he eventually had her sectioned in order to rid himself of her horrible taste. No one in SCD knew what his sort of 'sectioning' was; no one dared ask. However, her screams from the depths of the very bowels of Fenchurch West, along with those of others, could be heard every time the lift opened. No one could bear it; taking the stairs was the only palatable alternative.
But, Louise--his lovely, lovely, broken Louise. She was so lost; her pain, her confusion palpable and so exquisite. It had been so easy to recruit her to him exclusively under the guise of false concern. His seduction made her even more dependent on him for not only physical pleasure, but for the entirety of her self-worth. No one before her had exhilarated him to this extent. She was addicted to him; every fiber of her being clung to whatever scraps of positivity he threw in her direction. The control that she gave him was so willing and laughably trusting. Keats closed his eyes and exhaled shakily, betraying his level of arousal at the thought.
His head turned to gaze out the glass window of his office at his subordinates. They were semi-adequate worker bees--never questioning, always doing, but all of that stopped once lunch o'clock hit. Getting pissed in the clubhouse was the only salve, and the next morning it was back to their Orwellian universe. It couldn't have been a less-professional group. But this was Keats' world; a paragon of debauchery and hedonism and a vacuous black hole of immorality. Anything went; that was, until he disagreed or deemed something against his code. It was the ultimate oxymoron.
Keats' interest was suddenly piqued as Louise Gardiner, herself now a Detective Sergeant, walked in, placing her materials on the desk right outside his office. His eyes danced over her. She had deserved that promotion; no one needed knowing how she got it. Smirking to himself, he got up out of his seat and walked the few short paces to the door, composing himself before opening it.
"Louise?" His voice was abrupt and made her whirl around, startled.
"Yes, Guv," she replied in earnest, her eyes wide.
"A word," he said, offering a small, congenial smile as he stepped aside, allowing her to pass through the doorway first before closing it behind him, shuttering the blinds.
His tone changed as soon as the door locked into place.
"Do you know what happened to the files on the Hackney grocery clerk assailant? They were supposed to have been handled by DC Janis on your watch, and nothing has landed on my desk in 24 hours. I'd hate to think this new position is causing you stress..." Keats put both hands on each of her shoulders and steadied her, staring bullets, studying her next reaction. Would she stammer? Would she rise to the occasion? Would she crumble? His fingers caressed the fabric of her blouse as one hand slid to the base of her neck, causing her breath to catch.
"I do apologise, sir; Janis was to have had that to me this morning and, as usual, it hasn't shown up, and 'coincidentally', neither has she," Louise replied breezily.
"FIND HER. Hung over or not. I don't care what you have to do to get her to complete that report; GET IT HERE. Do you understand, DS Gardiner? This is the time to exert your authority, and I expect 110 per cent every time. Are we clear?" His tone was dictatorial, but his eyes were flames. Her eyes narrowed.
"Crystal clear, sir." With that, she nodded at him curtly and coldly brushed by him on her way out. Keats studied her eerily, his mouth slightly open as he took her in. Had she even begun to notice the changes? He laughed to himself; none of them ever did. Memories of themselves 'before' were washed further and further out to sea with each passing day; as such, their appearances changed in response, conforming to his idea of perfection. As long as he could keep their brains washed with nothing but police work and alcohol, the façade would remain intact.
Louise had begun just like the other pathetic 'recruits' he stole from their former selves and former lives--downtrodden, an entertaining lack of self-esteem, and an inspiring amount of emotional baggage. Most importantly, she possessed the one thing that attracted souls to him: the innate capability to commit acts of internal crime because they lacked the courage to say no. Louise Gardiner ticked every last box. He almost felt sorry for her; almost.
But he looked at her now: her hair, once lifeless, was now a rich auburn; her clothing tasteful, but slowly becoming more revealing; her lips becoming fuller and less grey in appearance. However, what he saw most was the expression in her aquamarine eyes; it was almost cold. Her voice had been that of a mouse upon her arrival, her fear palpable; now, it was a solid alto that sometimes could carry an edge, and he couldn't wait to see what else she had in her. His spell over her was unbreakable; for once, he felt she might be the one to fulfil his legacy. He was in her blood.
DS Gardiner had fulfilled his request. Pulling Kate Janis' head from over the loo, she forced her to swallow down the alcohol-induced nausea as she completed her report in front of her. Without so much as a 'thank you', Louise stalked out of the flat with the signed paperwork, leaving DC Janis to her vomit-stained floor. The completed file was on Keats' desk by 3pm. How far she had come from those first days when, still remembering somewhat the torture she suffered during her undercover operation with the Stafford drug cartel, she was woefully incapable of conducting even a simple suspect interview. Even as the days passed and her memory quietly faded to black, she was still afraid of her own shadow to some extent. The self-satisfied smile on Keats' countenance was worth a thousand words as he cleaned his black-and-horn-rimmed spectacles with his pocket square. Tonight would be an enviable pleasure, he thought.
Rating: PG-13
Contains: adult themes
Spoilers: none (Series ended over a year ago)
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine; I just bend them to do what I want. :)
Summary: This is now the full story that I wanted to build from the short drabble 'Promised You A Miracle'. It is a work in progress, with no EDC. Detective Sergeant Louise Gardiner was now Jim Keats' worst nightmare: would he be able to stop her rudderless ship from crashing into his carefully-constructed dominion?
He didn't have to work that hard. She was already his, from the moment her soul entered his body, the game beginning the second he offered his gloved hand to her on an empty, deserted street soon after. Months and months had gone by, her slowly forgetting the past once again and her memory now only of two things: the present, and the future. Her situation could almost be described as a form of indentured slavery, all-consuming, and the consumption done solely by him.
Like all the others, she'd begun life at Fenchurch West on secondment to his department, the Serious Crime Division. All of them had been groomed by him as prototypes for his vision but had resulted in disappointment; so many souls, so many abject failures. Jim Keats sat alone at the desk in his office with the door closed, oblivious to the buzz happening just outside. His mind didn't wander often; he didn't allow it. He normally operated on few speeds: precision, organisation, and in accordance with the law. Well, that is to say, his law, which was by no means fair, and by no means lawful...not that anyone ever seemed to notice. He chuckled briefly at the thought before it passed and the thought of a litany of failed 'projects' took its place: DC Abbie Michaels...DC Kate Janis...DS Robbie Cleves...Sergeant Viv James...DI Geoff Bevan. Even DCI Derek Litton had fallen short. He had expected so much from this department, and it seemed all they were capable of was holding up the bar at the clubhouse night after night, only to turn around and hand in mediocre performances the following day. Keats shook his head, the anger fuming within.
Abbie Michaels had held the most promise; her arrogant, narcissistic nature making her a shoo-in for Keats' ultimate perversion--the perfect, sex-on-wheels corrupt copper who'd do anything for a collar. Oh, the transformation had been so much fun to watch: her deadened, ash-blonde hair turning into a coiffed, brassy 'do, her pantsuits morphing into miniskirts, her skin now a beautiful, yet heavily-made up shade of porcelain. Her lips became highly-glossed, almost like glass, and her enviable figure had men across the department lusting after her. She'd been Keats' favourite toy. That is, until her behaviour became obnoxious; Keats had initially been amused at her barroom antics, but later on it had become a stinging bee in his bonnet. She was, simply, nothing but an empty-headed whore. His dismissal of her, both professionally and physically, had devastated her to the point of insanity; he eventually had her sectioned in order to rid himself of her horrible taste. No one in SCD knew what his sort of 'sectioning' was; no one dared ask. However, her screams from the depths of the very bowels of Fenchurch West, along with those of others, could be heard every time the lift opened. No one could bear it; taking the stairs was the only palatable alternative.
But, Louise--his lovely, lovely, broken Louise. She was so lost; her pain, her confusion palpable and so exquisite. It had been so easy to recruit her to him exclusively under the guise of false concern. His seduction made her even more dependent on him for not only physical pleasure, but for the entirety of her self-worth. No one before her had exhilarated him to this extent. She was addicted to him; every fiber of her being clung to whatever scraps of positivity he threw in her direction. The control that she gave him was so willing and laughably trusting. Keats closed his eyes and exhaled shakily, betraying his level of arousal at the thought.
His head turned to gaze out the glass window of his office at his subordinates. They were semi-adequate worker bees--never questioning, always doing, but all of that stopped once lunch o'clock hit. Getting pissed in the clubhouse was the only salve, and the next morning it was back to their Orwellian universe. It couldn't have been a less-professional group. But this was Keats' world; a paragon of debauchery and hedonism and a vacuous black hole of immorality. Anything went; that was, until he disagreed or deemed something against his code. It was the ultimate oxymoron.
Keats' interest was suddenly piqued as Louise Gardiner, herself now a Detective Sergeant, walked in, placing her materials on the desk right outside his office. His eyes danced over her. She had deserved that promotion; no one needed knowing how she got it. Smirking to himself, he got up out of his seat and walked the few short paces to the door, composing himself before opening it.
"Louise?" His voice was abrupt and made her whirl around, startled.
"Yes, Guv," she replied in earnest, her eyes wide.
"A word," he said, offering a small, congenial smile as he stepped aside, allowing her to pass through the doorway first before closing it behind him, shuttering the blinds.
His tone changed as soon as the door locked into place.
"Do you know what happened to the files on the Hackney grocery clerk assailant? They were supposed to have been handled by DC Janis on your watch, and nothing has landed on my desk in 24 hours. I'd hate to think this new position is causing you stress..." Keats put both hands on each of her shoulders and steadied her, staring bullets, studying her next reaction. Would she stammer? Would she rise to the occasion? Would she crumble? His fingers caressed the fabric of her blouse as one hand slid to the base of her neck, causing her breath to catch.
"I do apologise, sir; Janis was to have had that to me this morning and, as usual, it hasn't shown up, and 'coincidentally', neither has she," Louise replied breezily.
"FIND HER. Hung over or not. I don't care what you have to do to get her to complete that report; GET IT HERE. Do you understand, DS Gardiner? This is the time to exert your authority, and I expect 110 per cent every time. Are we clear?" His tone was dictatorial, but his eyes were flames. Her eyes narrowed.
"Crystal clear, sir." With that, she nodded at him curtly and coldly brushed by him on her way out. Keats studied her eerily, his mouth slightly open as he took her in. Had she even begun to notice the changes? He laughed to himself; none of them ever did. Memories of themselves 'before' were washed further and further out to sea with each passing day; as such, their appearances changed in response, conforming to his idea of perfection. As long as he could keep their brains washed with nothing but police work and alcohol, the façade would remain intact.
Louise had begun just like the other pathetic 'recruits' he stole from their former selves and former lives--downtrodden, an entertaining lack of self-esteem, and an inspiring amount of emotional baggage. Most importantly, she possessed the one thing that attracted souls to him: the innate capability to commit acts of internal crime because they lacked the courage to say no. Louise Gardiner ticked every last box. He almost felt sorry for her; almost.
But he looked at her now: her hair, once lifeless, was now a rich auburn; her clothing tasteful, but slowly becoming more revealing; her lips becoming fuller and less grey in appearance. However, what he saw most was the expression in her aquamarine eyes; it was almost cold. Her voice had been that of a mouse upon her arrival, her fear palpable; now, it was a solid alto that sometimes could carry an edge, and he couldn't wait to see what else she had in her. His spell over her was unbreakable; for once, he felt she might be the one to fulfil his legacy. He was in her blood.
DS Gardiner had fulfilled his request. Pulling Kate Janis' head from over the loo, she forced her to swallow down the alcohol-induced nausea as she completed her report in front of her. Without so much as a 'thank you', Louise stalked out of the flat with the signed paperwork, leaving DC Janis to her vomit-stained floor. The completed file was on Keats' desk by 3pm. How far she had come from those first days when, still remembering somewhat the torture she suffered during her undercover operation with the Stafford drug cartel, she was woefully incapable of conducting even a simple suspect interview. Even as the days passed and her memory quietly faded to black, she was still afraid of her own shadow to some extent. The self-satisfied smile on Keats' countenance was worth a thousand words as he cleaned his black-and-horn-rimmed spectacles with his pocket square. Tonight would be an enviable pleasure, he thought.