Title: Moments 7
Fandom: Penguins of Madagascar
Characters: Skipper, Private, Kowalski, Hans, Manfredi, Johnson, Rico, Mrs. O'Malley (Mama Duck),
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'll give them back clean and de-humanized when I'm done, mm-kay?
Warnings: AU, Humanized, violence, threats, slash,
Author's note: Excessive amounts of Hans in some. Please excuse my dear drugged mind. I wrote the first 2 of these while hopped up on cold meds. I can't breath...
A/N2: I think I'm going to have to abuse someone, because every time I get Kowalski and Skipper talking, they take over and they won't shut up. Alright, I've decided not to let them talk anymore. Not to each other anyway.
61 Cover (Preludes Execute and Asylum)
"Private's pyromania aside, what's new?"
"A deep-cover agent was found out."
"Yes. Apparently his position was compromised."
"Well, who was it?"
"You're not going to believe or like this, but..."
"Spit it out, Kowalski, we haven't got all day!"
"Oh, entirely possible."
"Then I guess it's Operation: Save Deep Cover."
Keeping just enough balance to not fall to his doom, Hans ran along the edge of a quarry, one eye focused on the rather large drop just to his right. In front of him was a wide gap, and on the other side, salvation. Skipper and his team were waiting just on the far side of that gap, and he didn't even want to think about what was behind him.
With a last prayer he leaped, hoping fervently that he'd make it.
Skipper woke before he could find out, jerking forward and getting choked by his seat belt. Beside him, Kowalski glanced over, barely taking his eyes from the road. "Skipper, it's 3:30 in the morning, and you don't need to drive for a few more hours. Go back to sleep."
It was slick and sticky and gross. Private shuddered when he realized there was bound to be a rainbow-colored sheen covering him because of the oil. It was so gross and it wasn't coming off, no matter what he did.
"Come along, my duckies, it's going to be a great adventure." Private's voice was happy, filled with joy.
Skipper was not amused in the slightest.
Skipper eased his key into the door's lock, willing it to open silently. Thankfully it did, but as Skipper tiptoed across the living room, he heard someone say, "I honestly don't care if you continue to visit him, just don't let it interfere with missions."
Wincing, Skipper replied, "Kowalski. You know I won't." It wasn't often that Skipper remembered Kowalski had been in the business even longer than he'd been, but when he did, it was a painful reminder.
Kowalski looked up from his book with a slightly disappointed look on his face. "I know you won't, but... Look, just be careful, alright? I don't want you going the way of Manfredi and Johnson." Skipper eased his way towards Kowalski, noting that the older man was sitting on the couch with both Private and Rico sleeping on him.
"Trust me, Kowalski, I don't either. It would rip these two apart, and who knows what it'd do to you."
"I'm holding that to you. Don't do anything crazier than usual."
"Johnson, you asshole," Manfredi griped. Johnson and Kowalski just looked back at their teammate huddling beside a gravestone. "There is something inherently wrong with a cemetery. It's filled with dead people!"
Kowalski and Johnson shared a glance. "Uh... you do realize you're beside a gravestone and on a grave, right?" Kowalski's soft words caused Manfredi to scream and jump onto Johnson.
"...Mission aborted. We're going home." Johnson's face was mildly disgusted as the three of them walked back to their car.
Private placed some supplies in a small purple bag and dropped it in his duffel bag.
He was certain that his enemies wouldn't be expecting a blackjack made from a Crown Royal bag.
If Rico tried really hard (read: didn't pay any real attention) he could sound just like one of the owl's in Central Park. It startled Kowalski the first time he heard it and prompted him to conduct several studies in which Rico had to hoot.
The whole thing amused Private and Skipper to no end.
Mrs. O'Malley loved her kids, she really did. But she was in the firm belief that putting your brother in a sack and leaving him in there was a bad idea. So why her boys insisted on doing so was beyond her.
A soft, mournful melody tumbled out of Hans' mouth. He was in an old cemetery, in some remote area of Denmark. Standing in front of three nondescript headstones, he stepped forward and placed flowers on each of the graves. As he placed the final flowers, he sang the final notes of his hymn to fallen comrades.