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fenellaFic for Imogen! Alias/TP/soon to be KC crossover. I hope you appreciate how weird it is for me writing about the actor Bradley Cooper, when I know a real person by the same name (who isn't like this at all). Not that the actor isn't a real person... but you know what I mean. Anyways, this is still really rough. Spell-checked, but that's about it. But I probably won't have time to write for another few weeks again. Not that I actually had the time to write this, though :P
Summary:When we find him, Bradley Cooper is on the point of breaking. He’s worked as at the Port Caynn docks for the past seven years, an undercover spy, and a mess-up on the first real action he’s seen in years resulted in the death of one of his closest friends and fellow spy, Francie. He’s sure he’s not meant to be a spy, but doesn’t want to disappoint his older brother, George – who just happens to be the king of thieves in nation’s capital. Soon after, Bradley receives a new assignment: to the kitchens of a Tusainie palace.
Supper Spy
Starring Bradley Cooper, of Alias and Kitchen Confidential fame, brother to George Cooper, the infamous King of Thieves in Corus, Tortall.
*
Bradley never really wanted to be a spy.
It was totally George’s sort of thing – conquering the world one back alley at a time, saving humanity from itself in the most questionable way possible. Except that George liked it when people knew who he was and judged him by his reputation – not that he’d ever admit as much – and liked to be the one in control. George wouldn’t have been able to keep his head down and chin up while working a seemingly meaningless job for seven years.
And it was seven years that Bradley had been posted to the docks in Port Caynn, passing along intelligence and monitoring smuggling operations – both their side, and the other guys, too.
But it wasn’t as if Bradley had big plans of his own, so in the meantime it was well enough being a part of George’s quest for… well, for whatever George was trying to accomplish. Despite George’s strangely founded concepts of honour, and nobility (especially among thieves), Bradley admired his older brother.
*
When Bradley was five, he’d come home one day to find George (just barely seven) playing with Eleni’s kitchen knives.
“You can’t do that.” Bradley had blinked, his eyes growing round and troubled. “And I’m telling Ma on you.”
George didn’t turn around, but continued tossing the knives. “You wouldn’t do that, ‘cause it would worry her. And you don’t wanna worry Ma, do you?”
“George!”
“Gee-orrrge,” mimicked George his voice going high and whiny.
“I’m so telling.”
Two knives blurred past Bradley, just fingers’ widths apart, and he found himself pinned by the shirt to the door.
“The way I see it Baby Bear, is that you’re not going to tell Ma about this, or I won’t show you how to do that.” George nodded at the knives.
Bradley bristled at the use of Eleni’s nickname for him, but even at five he knew a good bribe when he saw one. George was just so cool.
*
At twenty-one, Bradley still had a certain sense of awe for his older brother and was willing to do nearly anything that George asked of him. This was all much to Eleni’s dismay – she’d hoped that at least one of her sons would go into the priesthood.
For his part, Bradley had always expected he’d end up waitering in lower class meal houses for the rest of his life, as he did before turning fourteen. It wasn’t a bad job all things considered. He’d even held a short-lived apprenticeship in a Tusainie eatery before being thrown out for sleeping with one (okay, three) of a noble patron’s daughters.
But what Bradley lacked in ambitions of his own, he made up for in charm. Will Tippin, as he was known around the Port Caynn docks, made friends as easily as he was quick to smile.
He shamelessly exploited his good-looks to chat up the ladies – local, and passing through – and was well rewarded with seemingly innocent information. More often then not, these friendly conversations were continued in private, in various bedrooms around the Port.
The result was that Bradley was involved in a rather large number of bar fights with jealous husbands and the like. But folks around the Port were odd ones, and were wary of people on the straight and narrow. So for his indiscretions, Will earned an unspoken approval - so long as the jealous husband got to throw the last punch.
Bradley had various theories about this that he liked to share with Francie – his partner on the job, the spy job – when she’d ask why he insisted on having his face smashed by men three times his size. Happy women were chatty women, Bradley would explain, and he made the ladies very happy. Francie liked to tell him that he was full of it.
“You’re just sad that you can’t have a piece of Will Tippin,” Bradley would smirk.
“Sweetie,” Francie would say, “I could have you any day of the week.”
“Tuesday? Does Tuesday work for you? Because Tuesday is better than good for me.”
This is where Francie would throw things. Usually heavy things.
“Hey, hey! Injured, remember?”
It was a long standing argument, as was most of their good-natured bickering. But it was also one of the rare cases where after five or six years, Francie caved and Bradley came out on top.
Except that Francie was totally the one on top, and Bradley wasn’t complaining. He really wasn’t. Bradley couldn’t remember being so happy in his entire life, and after so many years of searching, he suddenly knew exactly what it was that he wanted from life.
That was one month before Francie died.
*
It was the first real action they’d had on the job in years. They’d been checking out cargo on a smuggling run (the other guys, not theirs) – several hundred carrier pigeons, and only slightly quieter than the pigs the week before – and because of the noise, they hadn’t noticed the fifth man.
Before the Port authorities had arrived, Francie took a knife in the stomach.
Bradley was devastated.
When he wasn’t refusing to leave his rooms, he was frequenting the local bars. He lived above one too, which was convenient all things considered. Bradley ignored the many messages that arrived from Corus, and let them gather on his desk until they started to take over his floor as well. Whatever, George be damned - he’d never really wanted to be a spy.
*
On the one hundred and third day of waking up without Francie, Bradley opened his eyes blearily.
There was a man sitting on his bed, eyeing him sceptically. The man was more muscled and his eyes harder than Bradley remembered, but the nose was undeniably the same. Bradley could not deal with this.
“George?”
The nose, and the head attached, nodded up and down.
Bradley sat up, which in retrospect turned out to be a bad idea. His head hurt rather a lot.
“How did you get in?”
George’s eyebrows inched upwards.
“Oh, right. Stupid question.”
“I’ve got a job for you,” said George by way of greeting. “In Tusaine.”
Bradley yelped in indignation. “No, no jobs. No missions. No assignments.”
“Oh come on, Brad. I need you for this.”
“No, you really, really don’t. You’ve had me on some lame, no-action post for years now. We both know that I’m as much of a spy as you are a Baron, or some other Lordly thing.” Bradley thought about this for a second. “Person.”
“Okay,” said George unfeelingly, because grownup George was turning out to be an unfeeling ass. “Enough self-pity. Get up.”
“Yes Ma. How silly of me to mourn the woman I love.”
George growled in irritation, and Bradley felt mildly better. He felt like being bratty.
And then he felt worse, much worse as George was hauling him out of bed and his head connected with the wall.
Bradley reached for the knife that he kept by his bed, but it wasn’t there, and George smirked tellingly and it wasn’t Bradley’s fault that his fist connected with George’s face. Really, George had been asking for it.
It was just like they were in Eleni’s Corus townhouse again as they hit the floor, throwing punches the whole way down. It didn’t last more than a minute before George had him pinned to the floor.
“Somebody’s learned some fancy tricks,” Bradley sneered.
George eyed him appraisingly. “You wanna learn?”
“You gonna share?”
“You gonna take the job in Tusaine?”
Bradley paused a minute, considering. Then he grinned at George. “I’m telling Ma.”
George winced before smiling. “I guess I won’t bother telling you that it’s in the palace kitchens, then.”
Bradley’s mouth dropped open. “Serious?”
George nodded, amused.
“Tusainie cuisine is only the best thing to come out of western civilization.”
George shrugged, “But you don’t want the job. I guess I’ll give it to Thomas.”
“As in Thomas Grace?”
George nodded, enjoying his brother’s outrage.
“That uncultured freak? He wouldn’t know veal from steak if they smacked him in the face! Forget about spies, he’d be an assassin in the kitchen.”
George gave him a distinctly superior look, before releasing him. “See, Baby Bear? I told you that I needed you.”
Bradley threw a punch that George easily ducked. “Although your fighting skills leave something to be desired. I hope you haven’t lost your skills with knives.”
“Try me.”
George handed over the confiscated knife. “Best of five. That nick in the door.”
“Easy.” Bradley threw just as the door opened, and the knife went sailing past his landlord’s right ear.
The landlord, pale and shaken, looked at Bradley. “I heard noises like bodies hitting the floor, Mister Tippin. Is everything okay?”
Bradley grinned at George. “Yeah, I think it is.”
*
Summary:When we find him, Bradley Cooper is on the point of breaking. He’s worked as at the Port Caynn docks for the past seven years, an undercover spy, and a mess-up on the first real action he’s seen in years resulted in the death of one of his closest friends and fellow spy, Francie. He’s sure he’s not meant to be a spy, but doesn’t want to disappoint his older brother, George – who just happens to be the king of thieves in nation’s capital. Soon after, Bradley receives a new assignment: to the kitchens of a Tusainie palace.
Supper Spy
Starring Bradley Cooper, of Alias and Kitchen Confidential fame, brother to George Cooper, the infamous King of Thieves in Corus, Tortall.
*
Bradley never really wanted to be a spy.
It was totally George’s sort of thing – conquering the world one back alley at a time, saving humanity from itself in the most questionable way possible. Except that George liked it when people knew who he was and judged him by his reputation – not that he’d ever admit as much – and liked to be the one in control. George wouldn’t have been able to keep his head down and chin up while working a seemingly meaningless job for seven years.
And it was seven years that Bradley had been posted to the docks in Port Caynn, passing along intelligence and monitoring smuggling operations – both their side, and the other guys, too.
But it wasn’t as if Bradley had big plans of his own, so in the meantime it was well enough being a part of George’s quest for… well, for whatever George was trying to accomplish. Despite George’s strangely founded concepts of honour, and nobility (especially among thieves), Bradley admired his older brother.
*
When Bradley was five, he’d come home one day to find George (just barely seven) playing with Eleni’s kitchen knives.
“You can’t do that.” Bradley had blinked, his eyes growing round and troubled. “And I’m telling Ma on you.”
George didn’t turn around, but continued tossing the knives. “You wouldn’t do that, ‘cause it would worry her. And you don’t wanna worry Ma, do you?”
“George!”
“Gee-orrrge,” mimicked George his voice going high and whiny.
“I’m so telling.”
Two knives blurred past Bradley, just fingers’ widths apart, and he found himself pinned by the shirt to the door.
“The way I see it Baby Bear, is that you’re not going to tell Ma about this, or I won’t show you how to do that.” George nodded at the knives.
Bradley bristled at the use of Eleni’s nickname for him, but even at five he knew a good bribe when he saw one. George was just so cool.
*
At twenty-one, Bradley still had a certain sense of awe for his older brother and was willing to do nearly anything that George asked of him. This was all much to Eleni’s dismay – she’d hoped that at least one of her sons would go into the priesthood.
For his part, Bradley had always expected he’d end up waitering in lower class meal houses for the rest of his life, as he did before turning fourteen. It wasn’t a bad job all things considered. He’d even held a short-lived apprenticeship in a Tusainie eatery before being thrown out for sleeping with one (okay, three) of a noble patron’s daughters.
But what Bradley lacked in ambitions of his own, he made up for in charm. Will Tippin, as he was known around the Port Caynn docks, made friends as easily as he was quick to smile.
He shamelessly exploited his good-looks to chat up the ladies – local, and passing through – and was well rewarded with seemingly innocent information. More often then not, these friendly conversations were continued in private, in various bedrooms around the Port.
The result was that Bradley was involved in a rather large number of bar fights with jealous husbands and the like. But folks around the Port were odd ones, and were wary of people on the straight and narrow. So for his indiscretions, Will earned an unspoken approval - so long as the jealous husband got to throw the last punch.
Bradley had various theories about this that he liked to share with Francie – his partner on the job, the spy job – when she’d ask why he insisted on having his face smashed by men three times his size. Happy women were chatty women, Bradley would explain, and he made the ladies very happy. Francie liked to tell him that he was full of it.
“You’re just sad that you can’t have a piece of Will Tippin,” Bradley would smirk.
“Sweetie,” Francie would say, “I could have you any day of the week.”
“Tuesday? Does Tuesday work for you? Because Tuesday is better than good for me.”
This is where Francie would throw things. Usually heavy things.
“Hey, hey! Injured, remember?”
It was a long standing argument, as was most of their good-natured bickering. But it was also one of the rare cases where after five or six years, Francie caved and Bradley came out on top.
Except that Francie was totally the one on top, and Bradley wasn’t complaining. He really wasn’t. Bradley couldn’t remember being so happy in his entire life, and after so many years of searching, he suddenly knew exactly what it was that he wanted from life.
That was one month before Francie died.
*
It was the first real action they’d had on the job in years. They’d been checking out cargo on a smuggling run (the other guys, not theirs) – several hundred carrier pigeons, and only slightly quieter than the pigs the week before – and because of the noise, they hadn’t noticed the fifth man.
Before the Port authorities had arrived, Francie took a knife in the stomach.
Bradley was devastated.
When he wasn’t refusing to leave his rooms, he was frequenting the local bars. He lived above one too, which was convenient all things considered. Bradley ignored the many messages that arrived from Corus, and let them gather on his desk until they started to take over his floor as well. Whatever, George be damned - he’d never really wanted to be a spy.
*
On the one hundred and third day of waking up without Francie, Bradley opened his eyes blearily.
There was a man sitting on his bed, eyeing him sceptically. The man was more muscled and his eyes harder than Bradley remembered, but the nose was undeniably the same. Bradley could not deal with this.
“George?”
The nose, and the head attached, nodded up and down.
Bradley sat up, which in retrospect turned out to be a bad idea. His head hurt rather a lot.
“How did you get in?”
George’s eyebrows inched upwards.
“Oh, right. Stupid question.”
“I’ve got a job for you,” said George by way of greeting. “In Tusaine.”
Bradley yelped in indignation. “No, no jobs. No missions. No assignments.”
“Oh come on, Brad. I need you for this.”
“No, you really, really don’t. You’ve had me on some lame, no-action post for years now. We both know that I’m as much of a spy as you are a Baron, or some other Lordly thing.” Bradley thought about this for a second. “Person.”
“Okay,” said George unfeelingly, because grownup George was turning out to be an unfeeling ass. “Enough self-pity. Get up.”
“Yes Ma. How silly of me to mourn the woman I love.”
George growled in irritation, and Bradley felt mildly better. He felt like being bratty.
And then he felt worse, much worse as George was hauling him out of bed and his head connected with the wall.
Bradley reached for the knife that he kept by his bed, but it wasn’t there, and George smirked tellingly and it wasn’t Bradley’s fault that his fist connected with George’s face. Really, George had been asking for it.
It was just like they were in Eleni’s Corus townhouse again as they hit the floor, throwing punches the whole way down. It didn’t last more than a minute before George had him pinned to the floor.
“Somebody’s learned some fancy tricks,” Bradley sneered.
George eyed him appraisingly. “You wanna learn?”
“You gonna share?”
“You gonna take the job in Tusaine?”
Bradley paused a minute, considering. Then he grinned at George. “I’m telling Ma.”
George winced before smiling. “I guess I won’t bother telling you that it’s in the palace kitchens, then.”
Bradley’s mouth dropped open. “Serious?”
George nodded, amused.
“Tusainie cuisine is only the best thing to come out of western civilization.”
George shrugged, “But you don’t want the job. I guess I’ll give it to Thomas.”
“As in Thomas Grace?”
George nodded, enjoying his brother’s outrage.
“That uncultured freak? He wouldn’t know veal from steak if they smacked him in the face! Forget about spies, he’d be an assassin in the kitchen.”
George gave him a distinctly superior look, before releasing him. “See, Baby Bear? I told you that I needed you.”
Bradley threw a punch that George easily ducked. “Although your fighting skills leave something to be desired. I hope you haven’t lost your skills with knives.”
“Try me.”
George handed over the confiscated knife. “Best of five. That nick in the door.”
“Easy.” Bradley threw just as the door opened, and the knife went sailing past his landlord’s right ear.
The landlord, pale and shaken, looked at Bradley. “I heard noises like bodies hitting the floor, Mister Tippin. Is everything okay?”
Bradley grinned at George. “Yeah, I think it is.”
*
