SUAVE & SAVAGE

There’s a smile that comes at the end of it all, but it wavers. 

There’s a certain appeal to the man standing before him, a kind of presence that demanded attention and interest, that made Cade fairly sure that this was someone he ought nought make an enemy out of. The smirk on the other’s lips was so confident, and it made Cade feel as though he was being examined.

It was unsettling, to be near someone so settled.

Slipping past the doorframe, he sucked in a long breath of air as he took in the bedroom. It wasn’t altogether too much different from his own, though where Cade’s felt to him like dangerous foreign territory, it was immediately clear that his counterpart had found a home among the four walls. Looking at his standing there now, ease donned and chest light, Cade feels desperately out of place.

He feels like his spine has crumbled. 

Abandoned and hollow.

Suppose I’ll have to get used to that.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as his brow furrows.

He steps away from the other agent, moving closer towards the open closet. “I don’t suppose we could find me a suit with a label in English,” he says, eyes skimming over the various languages donning the labels. “I was good at languages in school, but never saw much of a point to French.” He was broader, if only slightly, than his new friend, but it was possible one of the ones hanging there would fit him. If they didn’t, he feared he’d have to go back to that awful room filled to the brim with expensive silks and embroidered finery. 

The costume room, Charlie had dubbed it. Eventually, he’s sure that it will suit the mask Cade is still learning. 

Chaplin. He was still getting used to the taste of his new name on his tongue, learning the ins and outs of those two syllables, trying to make a home out of them the way Cade hadn’t been in a long time. 

“Or is that too much to ask?”

He watched carefully as the stranger entered, taking note of his awestruck face, as he passed through the threshold of the room—his room now. It was odd, he had to admit, if to no one but himself, how easily he’d settled. His things were tucked away into the antique dresser, hung with care in the walk-in closet opposite the bathroom where all his toiletries had made a home atop the vanity. He’d taken one step into his new room and made it his home within ten minutes, but perhaps he was a chameleon in that sense, always capable of turning either a dank, drab space or an elegant room inside a mansion into a place he’d be proud to rest his head at the end of the day. If you weren’t proud of your home (your clothes, your things, yourself), then what was the point?

“You don’t have to pronounce it,” he said in jest, slipping behind the door to the closet and rummaging through the wall of suits before choosing two very different yet equally chic to pick from. “You just have to wear it,” he called from behind the door, a small laugh escaping him as he walked back out a few moments later with ties to match and a few cufflinks in mind already. 

“Valentino,” he said slowly (mockingly, if he’s being honest, but he was sure it’d sail over the man’s head), “all black, classic.” The first option—the only option, if he were asked. When in doubt, wear Valentino, his father’s words echoed within the walls of his mind and he grimaced at the reminder of the man, the family, he’d left behind, but he couldn’t help but think good riddance. “But we could add a gold tie for the occasion, of course,” he said with a smirk, tossing the two-piece suit atop the king-sized bed across from him. 

“Or Armani,” he smiled, looking down and gesturing at the very suit he was donned in. “Black, but again with the tie, you know.” He tossed the second one atop the bed as well. “You have shoes? What’s your size?” he didn’t wait for an answer, turning back and venturing into his closet once more.

It’s hard not to feel like the proverbial bull in the china shop—like she shouldn’t touch anything, lest she leave grubby grease-stained fingerprints on everything that’s glittering and pristine. This whole tableau had never been her scene: she’d raised to believe in an honest day’s work, and even if somewhere along the way she’d left the honesty by the wayside, the work ethic had remained—only with added grit. 

If she plays this game by its rules—(which seem to be: murmured voices, daintily sipped champagne, soft small steps to soft jazz)—then she’s handicapped herself from the start. And so the only thing to do is to refuse to play, or to do so by her own rules. If this welcome party, such as it is, is their new benefactor’s way of saying this is who I am and this is what I expect, then the only thing for her to do is show her hand in turn: you invited me here, and this is what you’re getting. 

And right now, what the stranger in front of her is getting is a healthy swallow of champagne and an indelicate snort. “And I’d prefer tequila, but I don’t think they’re taking orders.“ If Josie is rough edges, the man in front of her seems to be all smoothness. She can’t detect any of her own out-of-place feelings in him, even though she’s willing to bet that he knows as much—(or maybe, more accurately, as little)—as she does. 

“Though,” she says after a pause, her smile turning slightly more mischievous, “they must be hiding the good stuff around here somewhere.”

Harsh, it was the first thought that came to mind when his eyes landed on her. Not in the sense that he was scared (it would take far more than a beautiful woman in a dress to strike fear in him), but in the sense that she looked out of place. A row of fine china with a tattered dish at the end of the line, still exquisite but chipped at the edges. Sharp and dangerous and beautiful all at once. 

“A shame,” he purred, tapping the side of his champagne flute with his index finger and shaking his head with a tsk, tsk. “I’d kill for a Macallan,” he mused, not really to her in particular, but absent-mindedly as he perused the crowd. His interest was fading, thoughts shifting from scotch to the peculiar look of the man (presumably Charlie) on the terrace above as he observed the party, but her words brought him back to the present—forced him to focus on his surroundings instead of the nagging questions looming within his head. 

With her eyes alight as a timid smirk transformed into one quite playful, he couldn’t help but return the sentiment, mirroring her devious suggestion with a nod and a smirk. Looking around, he peered around her dramatically in search of a waiter disappearing for they would hopefully lead them to cache of liquor the mansion would undoubtedly have. 

“Ah, don’t look now,” he nodded to her left, features going placid, “but I think I see where this sewer water—” he took a quick, inconspicuous sip of champagne, “—is coming from. Shall we? They must have more than this.”

There was something about the way he maneuvered the glass that struck Madeline dumb for a moment - just a moment. She was good at collecting things from people. Often trinkets but mostly mannerisms, habits, and gestures - the spaces in the bones of them that she could fit herself into. There was something she knew about him, but she was either too tipsy to remember or the sensory overload of the evening was getting to her. She rolled it away with the lift of one shoulder and slipped her hand into his, letting her skin rest against his for a moment longer than what was comfortable.

“Delicious,” she repeated, mouth pinched into a little smile. Her hand fell away. “Has the god of spies named you yet?” She took another treat and feigned offering before slipping it between her own lips. “He calls me Scarlet.”

Light shone on her face as he shifted in the darkness and a familiar feeling stirred in his gut, a tinge of déjà vu that made his head swirl. A whiff of her perfume, that sly smile. He remembered it and he didn’t, like fine lace slipping through his fingers faster than he could grasp it, fascinating and fleeting. And then her hand met his, rested against his palm as if it had always meant to, and he took note of this, of her skill—one of many, of that he was positive—and tucked it away for later use. 

He played into her bit, leaning forward with every intention of scooping away the little candy only to feign a pout in the same fashion. If its games you wish to play... he nodded, sipping at his champagne though the notion that Charlie was a god left a bitter taste atop his tongue. 

“Indigo,” he said cooly, the inflection subtle, a bit boastful, but his charismatic yet bashful tone matched his spurious smile, giving nothing away but was intended to leave her wanting more. “Pleasure to meet you, Scarlet,” the move was slow, reaching for her hand, but his eyes never left hers, not even as he placed a tender kiss atop her knuckles.

“Fuck -”  

Vulgarity slips from beneath their hushed breath, bent over at the waist to examine their small toe, which has wriggled free of the strappy shoes into which they have squeezed. It is an embarrassing fact of life that Bay has never worn heels - they’d not had occasion to - a day in their life; today, certainly was not the day to learn a new skill. They are altogether overwhelmed, huffing and blustering, for while they were eager for this strange opportunity, they are suddenly quite missing their little laboratory in the bayou, wistful and unsettled. No one had required them to wear golden stilts there, for certain. 

They are in the very center of the room, ungraceful and ostentatious, sticking out among the crowd like a broken thumb. An island, stranded, for they have done up the clasp upon their shoe incorrectly; with a string of profanity, they hike their velvet skirt up about their knees and kneel, foregoing social grace in the name of wrenching their shoe off, leaving one in tact and the other dangling from calloused and scarred fingers. They stand, cross in expression and aura, and stomp off-kilter - one foot higher than the other - to the nearest table, one occupied, though they notice not. And then, with beauty and grace and all things worthy of a function such as this one, they rip off the other shoe, if only to be for a moment, and plop them unceremoniously upon the table. Flexing their toes, they lean back in the chair, and give a great, heaving sigh. Much better.

What a curious thing, this mess who’d wandered over to him, clunking and clanking their way across the room like a bull in a china shop, flopping about like a fish out of water. They don’t belong here, he thought as he tapped the pad of his index finger against his lips, a smirk playing in the corners of his mouth as he watched them wage a war against a pair of heels. It was like watching a newborn foal attempt to get its footing whilst straddling its first few breaths in a whole new world. Awkward and yet somehow quite endearing, though the stoic look upon their face was far from enticing. 

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows atop the table and sipped at his drink, fighting back laughter as they slammed the shoes down amongst the china and he couldn’t help but gawk, perplexed and impressed all at once. And for a moment he wondered, what would it be like to navigate life in their shoes, not literally, but in the sense that they do as they please no matter the judgement from others. Then again, he does the same, doesn’t he? Only yielding a very different result because of the hand he was dealt. 

“Comfortable?” he cleared his throat with a nod toward the pumps.

date: idk what this is yet timestamp: about 30 minutes pre-ball location: indigo’s bedroom availability: @agntindigo

It was a strange thing, luxury. It left a poor taste in Cade’s mouth.

There’s something about the decadence of the mansion that makes him feel even more like a shell than he had back home in Monterrey. It wasn’t easy growing up the way that he had, but there was no falsehood to it, no show to be put on save for the shows of power he played into late at night. It makes little sense, to feel more comfort in the gory glory of an underground fight ring than the big white comforter splayed across what was now meant to be his bed. 

Which, coincidentally, was where Cade had laid out his options for costume for this evening. 

Of course, he wondered if even these were the right choice. What was I thinking? He felt he could do little else than scold himself, wonder what it was he thought he was doing, wonder what it was that had made him believed he deserved to call such luxury his home. He didn’t deserve this. 

Frustrated, he pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales sharply, holds his breath, then exhales in a shudder. Biting the inside of his cheek, he makes a split second decision. One moment he is standing before his bed, and then next he’s gone into the hallway and knocked on his next-door neighbor’s door. 

What he sees when the dark wood swings open, of course, does little to make him feel better. 

“Well you look fucking important,” he says, dark eyes flicking up and down the other’s frame to take in the full effect. “Or your suit does at least.”

He pauses, purses his lips, considering. 

He’d never been very good at changing his mind – “Care to help me with the same effect?”  

He felt right at home. With the lush carpet beneath his feet and the fine silks atop the bed, the room felt right, perhaps even more a home than his own for that house still belonged to his father—to Hiran, the man whose name he bears between his first and last. And the man never lets him forget it. But this room was his and his alone, from floor to ceiling, wall to wall his own. And it was a glorious feeling to have something of his own. A place untouched by lesser men. A place where Matthew was unburdened by his brothers. A place to spread his wings and soar out from under dark and looming wingspan of dear ol’ dad. 

After a shower, he secured his phone into the dock by his bedside and dressed quickly. Black slacks and a golden jacket with a matching bowtie he needn’t even look in the mirror to complete having mastered the knot so long ago. It was effortless, this look of perfection, this elegance resting upon his shoulders. And there was no other way to start out a night, a celebration like that of a taste of scotch and so he strode across the room to pour himself a glass only to stop dead in his tracks at a knock to his door. 

Well you look fucking important.

He chuckled, hand resting against the doorframe as the other ran along the edge of his jaw, eyes drawing down the frame of what he could only assume was another agent. 

“Well, you’re right on both counts,” a playful smirk spread across his face, “Myself and the suit are very important.” Rather rough around the edges and utterly hopeless when it came to fashion, it was the least he could do to take pity on the poor boy and he ushered him inside. “But I’m always happy to help,” the lie slipped from his lips as easily as a snake slithers through grass. Generous was not the word that came to mind when people, including himself, thought of him, but it’s always better to have someone owe you a favor than you owing them one.

It’s not at all what she expected, when a black car had driven her straight into a dead end. She’s not sure if anything could have prepared her for this: going from motel rooms and other people’s couches to velvet and silk and gold, gold, gold. It’s not at all her: if anything, she’s more chrome than gold. But if she understands anything at all about the reason she’s here, she supposes the point of it all is to pretend. 

She teeters slightly on heels she hasn’t had occasion to wear in months, at the very least. A waiter presses a glass of champagne into her hand—it isn’t the first one, but she accepts it all the same, drinks it all at once, feels it fizzing all the way down. 

No hesitation. No fear. Here we go.

There’s cause to be cautious, but caution has never gotten her anywhere. She dares most, she dares first, and even in this strange gilded welcome party, she doesn’t hold back from being the one to lay down an opening gambit. As if on cue, a waiter replaces her empty glass with a full one, and so she snags a second, an overture in an outstretched hand for the nearest agent. “I think they’re trying to get us drunk—if I’m going down, I’d rather take someone down with me.”

He took his sweet time getting ready, showered and shaved, shined and  for all this—from head to toe, top to bottom—took time to perfect. Each detail carefully planned not from the moment the man in black had told him to be ready in two hours but from the second he’d shut the door of the SUV. Matthew was born in this life, living lavish day to luxurious night and if this so-called Charlie was anything like the rumors he’d heard—whisperings of the Gatsby in the mansion on the hill—it’d be an affair to remember. 

And so donned in his golden tux, he’d ventured out. He’d made his way to the ballroom and attempted to blend in, to gather intel. The quirks, the ticks, the motivations. Each one collected and stored; they would all be useful at a later date, at a later time for no factoid was too small, too tiny to use against someone, too insignificant that Matthew couldn’t use it to make them sing like a canary. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he let out a light chuckle, taking the offered glass and stealthily slipping the one he’d already had in hand behind his back and onto a table. Nothing like a little alcohol to make the masses pliable, limber and docile and all the more interesting. “I’d much prefer scotch, though,” but he sipped the sweet champagne anyway, careful not to offend and instead, entice. 

Pretty girl beware of this heart of gold. This heart is cold. Madeline smirked as she brought her champagne flute to her lips and traced the neckline of her gold bustier. It cinched at her waist and frilled out into amber tulle, a gift from her former lover; she’d found it after his demise, tucked in a black box with a card marked only by his initials - no profession of love nor sweet ode. As if a cold heart had ever stopped her before.

The ambiance was so romantic. ( Though she could craft a candy heart out of a cement brick if she wanted to. ) But there was something about an old spy film - the suits and slinky dresses, the high stakes, the fast cars, the bloodshed, that made her want to deliver herself over to the next death. Willingly - with her heart open and her legs spread.

Madeline ( Scarlet, now. Scarlet, Scarlet, Scarlet - just like her heart. ) bit down on her lip as the bon-bon melted in her other hand. She popped it onto her tongue and licked her thumb, making eye contact with the agent prowling the hors d’oeuvres. “A bit messy, hm?” She cleaned the chocolate off the corner of her lips, then gestured out at the pretty faces shadowed by the darkness of the room. “Just like the lot of us.”

All the world’s a stage, and he treated it as such, didn’t he? Putting on a performance night after night, reveling in the applause, the adoration from the roaring crowd, and who could blame them? He was talented, magnificent in every regard, and it was no wonder they fawned over him, fell to their knees in worship. Tonight would be no different. Regardless of it being another man’s show, Matthew would steal glances, break hearts and leave them all begging for more. 

“All the best things are,” his voice was low—a gentle croon to match the one currently echoing off of the walls—as he slid up next to her, eyes having locked onto the sway of her hips before his gaze met hers, but his look never wavered, not even as he scooped up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “All the best people, at least,” he continued, taking a small step toward her. Extending his hand, a wicked grin spread across his face as he retrieved a similar treat from the table behind her and popped it into his mouth. “Quite delicious, though.”