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“Faen i helvete,” he mutters under his breath. It gets buried under the sounds of drawers and closets opening, blankets and clothes overturning— the pillows get thrown aside except for one where he removes its case, looks inside, and takes a moment to himself to mourn the loss of his own irrationality at the decision. He’s getting a teensy bit desperate. Just a bit. Fuck. Where the fuck is it?
The last place to check is the bathroom, and even though he can’t possibly dredge up any reasoning as to why that’s a viable location for what he’s looking for— he makes his way there anyway. Of course, it’s not in the medicine cabinet, or the sink cabinet, or— dette var helt ræva— the toilet . Marble echoes around the area when he slams the lid down, almost facepalming before he double takes at his own hand, grimaces, and goes to quickly wash it with soap.
After drying his hand, he hears a squeak on a solid surface.
He pauses, eye peeled and ears open.
His head tilts towards the bathtub. The curtains are drawn.
They weren’t this morning.
Quietly, he pulls out a pistol from his harness. A frustrated groan escapes him as if he were too caught up in his predicament, footsteps stomping across the floor towards the exit. He closes the lights, shuts the door. His person remains inside.
In a sharp contrast, his steps are as light as ever while he goes to the bathtub. He holds his breath, bracing himself—
—yanks the curtain—
—aims his pistol—
—and freezes.
Another tip of a gun is pointing at his forehead. He lets his own slowly fall to his side, his other hand raising up in surrender. When a small finger starts twitching at the trigger, he hurriedly kicks his pistol across the floor and returns to a surrender, but not without a heated glare at the offender. Unfortunately, he can’t really tell what kind of expression the other is holding.
Because.
Well.
God dammit.
“I’ve been looking for that, you know,” he grits out.
The reply is a mere tilt of the head, a red metal horn tapping the faucet with a muted sound. Tord clicks his tongue and goes to take the helmet off this miscreant, yet is forced to still himself when the gun presses against his skin. He sighs, long and from the chest, ending up perching on the edge of the tub. His hands are still raised.
“Honestly, what could you possibly benefit from this? Are you looking to overthrow me? Is that it? Is that why you’re wearing that?”
A nod.
Tord can’t help it. He snorts.
It was a mistake, because the trigger gets pulled and he gets shot.
A mix of some dreaded Norwenglish slips from him as he falls to the cold tiles, jamming his elbow at a weird angle before his head follows suit and fy faen he bit his fucking tongue—-
Laughter. High-pitched and giddy. It grates his ears.
He’s sorely tempted to throw all his fucks out the window and just lay there to rest when his sight becomes basically assaulted by the sudden onslaught of the bathroom lights, tiny steps skidding on the ground before stopping in front of his prone form.
The gun points at him again— nope.
He grabs the nozzle before it could shoot again, sits up, pulls it out of grubby hands, and throws it over his shoulder for it to clatter into the tub.
Unfortunately, the impact has it going off. Unfortunately, it hits Tord in the hair. And unfortunately, the texture is gooey, the smell is fumey, and the color is pink. Neon pink.
Laughter again bounces around the four walls, burying his muffled cursing as he tries—in vain—to wipe the paint off his skin and hair. Again, in vain. His prosthetic is losing the red. This is cruel irony. Cruel, cruel irony. Maybe the Devil had a point about that particular sin all those years ago, he can’t find it in himself to smile about it anymore.
“You just enjoy seeing me suffer, don’t you?”
The laughter quiets down, two hands going behind a back as if in innocence. The helmet—looking rather too big on such small shoulders—is still obstructing the features of a face, so an answer comes in the form of a lazy shrug.
Tord releases another snort at the sight, finally climbing up to a stand. “I suppose you and Thomas are alike in that regard.”
At the mention of the name, there’s a visible perk up. If this creature actually had a tail, it certainly would’ve been wagging at the moment. Tord quickly turns away to hide a smirk, loosening his eyepatch and making for the sink.
Washing his forehead first, Tord can feel a presence sidling up to him before it reaches over and hops onto the bathroom counter, perhaps watching him practically drench his entire head. He can feel and hear the kicking of light-up sneakers into the air and back at the lower cabinet, some unbalanced rhythm. When he comes back up to dry it off, he finds his reflection in the mirror and frowns. God fucking dammit, the paint apparently stains .
Soft snickering to his side, and Tord throws his towel in the direction. There’s an annoyed grunt.
“Absolutely terrible. Was this your plan all along? Have me look like the Pink Panther’s mistress and then usurp me because you look much cooler in the Red Leader helmet?”
A pause. One finger on the chin. Thinking, thinking. Then, a nod.
“Brat. I have a summit conference in two hours. Could you not delay your coup d'etat for a couple of days?”
A resounding ‘no’ from the shake of a head. Tord recognizes the split second of decision in the posture before he snatched up his discarded eyepatch in a blink of an eye—away from the meaty hands that were, surprisingly, only a second too late.
“Alright, from one supreme overlord to another—let us negotiate. You give me the helmet so I could complete my persona, while I won’t tell Tom that you’ve potentially delayed me in one of the few meetings I’ve actually deigned to go to. He’s been nagging at me to go. It’d be quite the disappointment if everything fell through.”
Tord would give himself a pat on the back for such exquisite manipulation tactics, definitely not born out of desperation. Not that it matters, as the helmet is quickly passed onto him as soon as the offer was presented. An olive branch, one with a singular patch of pink smudged against the gleaming metal. Eugh. It’s fine. It’s sort of hidden in the back. Maybe he’ll use Paul’s coat to wipe it off later.
“That’ll do, gremlin.” He looks down, finds eyes blinking up at him.
Brown eyes.
Big, brown eyes.
God fucking dammit.
“Come on,” he beckons, the helmet settling at his side as he leaves the bathroom. A single thud, one hop down from the perch. “There are some lollipops stashed in Thomas’ office. We might even be able to catch him before he heads to the helicarriers for the summit.”
Immediately, a shadow blurs past Tord, the pittering and pattering of footsteps resounding in the room. A grin stretches on Tord’s face as the kid essentially flings the bedroom door wide open, glancing over a shoulder as if to prompt Tord to hurry the fuck up .
“You really like Tom, don’t you?”
The kid is fidgeting, one hand twisting the doorknob over and over again. When Tord finally nears, he ruffles the kid’s hair and pushes such a bundle of excitement into the hallway.
“I suppose you and I are alike in that regard,” Tord whispers, locking the bedroom and following the mini overlord down the hall.