You Are An Earthquake

“Aileen,” he repeats as though he’s committing the name to memory, but later if she becomes merely a number or another grave being dug, he won’t care at all. Perhaps he can remember all of their faces, the creatures they’ve dragged into Initiative facilities, but there’s been too many names offered in hopes of peace. Names make them human, give them lives. And nothing like a mutant should have a life.

Nixon nods his head once, fingers knitted comfortably atop the metal table separating them, allowing him to sit as the picture of serene comfort. “How old are you, Aileen?”

He handles the situation with easy and the comfortable, confidant demeanour he possesses alone would usually be enough to rattle her. As it is she takes in a deep breath, trying to ignore how it shakes slightly and once again weighs up her options. Ailie supposes that cooperation, as far as possible, might be her best bet - the less reason she give them to get violent the better. But she can’t say for sure how long she’ll be able to be compliant for. So far all of the questions had been aimed at her, enough that she felt there was nothing incriminating in them.

So once more she gave him a soft answer. “Twenty six.” Though her twenty seventh birthday wasn’t that far off, a month at best, and she tried not to think about how little she’d accomplished in her life so far and how very much she was hoping that she’d live to see it.

“It’s true,” he states gruffly, but there’s sincerity there. If he knows just how to pry answers from the mouths of terrified mice, promotions have put him further and further away from getting his hands dirty. And while that never means that he doesn’t on occasion, because it’s something he enjoys - finding the truth, it does mean that this one might not be worth his time. She’s quiet and whether that’s because she’s fiercely loyal or just without much information he couldn’t say as of yet. She has something to hide however.

He shrugs his shoulders simply, hands folded politely atop the shiny metal table. “I probably won’t be the one to do it, but someone will make you speak,” he rationalizes, “Besides, all I’m asking for is your name.” He can already guess where she’s from by the accent.

For a long while she forces herself to look at him as she weighs up her options. As scary as she might be, there’s no hiding the shaking of her hands, she couldn’t let her fear cloud her mind and take over like it had every other time she’d been around the Initiative before. When the Syndicate had been on the front foot it had been one thing, all it had taken was a few encouraging words from Rhys and she’d pulled through, but there was no doubt that it was her fear that had landed her here in the first place and as hard as it might be she wasn’t going to let it be the death of her.

There was a chewing of her lip, much hard than her usual habit, but the biting pain brought a little bit of sharp clarity. She was still very much clinging to the hope that the Syndicate would come for them and praying that it wouldn’t be in vain. All she had to do was make sure she survived up until that point. So with a soft yet remarkably steady voice she gave him what he wanted. “Aileen.” It felt wrong to her to give him the name everyone else called her by.

“This will be easier on you if you give me answers,” he informs her honestly, “Straight, truthful answers.” It’s a thinly-veiled warning of what would happen if she lied, if she kept words locked behind teeth. The Initiative had ways of getting what they wanted from their prisoners and this one looks too small to withstand much of their methods of extraction. Simply attacking that fear might be enough to make her crack.

Nixon hopes that’s true. It would make his job and the work of all of his inferiors much easier. “I’m just here to talk.”

Ailie soon realises that he expects honesty from her - another thing she isn’t prepared to give. Except there is one little truth that escapes her in reply to his last uttering.  “I don’t believe you.” 

Telling the truth had never been something she’d struggled with, in fact the thought of lying almost encouraged nausea in her. Perhaps that was why the words left her mouth. He’d asked for honesty and she’d provided it. Or perhaps it was just the grim realisation that there was no chance that she’d be lucky enough to escape his company with just words being exchanged between them.

‘Success’ had been the word thrown around after the agents returned with men and women in custody. But one look at Mason had set the true answer into place. This raid could’ve gone better as the faces brought in for processing aren’t ones to match the sketches. None of these mutants are the ones they’ve been looking for. And while they might know something and could possibly lead a team down the right path, it isn’t the face he wants to break retribution on.

It’s a matter he’d discuss with his assigned Corinthian at a different time. Nixon would prefer to be better acquainted with his new prisoners and the small girl is the first in the tiny interrogation room. He had requested to meet with them all personally.

“You wanna give me your name,” he demands calmly, a vicious yet quiet storm as he whirls into the room and sits himself opposite of the creature. No guard beside him as he settles in front of her, the large two-way mirror behind him an imposing thing where she must know other agents are watching for any quick movements on her part. But if Mason is behind there she wouldn’t be able to do a thing, no ability to cheat with.

Her hands that could level building and split the earth. What they could do had led to her ending up here and while she was terrified she was also struck by the injustice of it all, as she had been so many times before. This wasn’t something she had chosen, a twist of fate and a change in her DNA, yet she had been manhandled here with a bag over her head.

When the man comes in she doesn’t look up until he speaks to her. There’s little doubt in her mind that this isn’t someone who will be particularly easy on her but  there’ no doubt in her mind that she’ll be the one to tell him anything. So she shakes her head as she bites her lip in an attempt to keep words spilling out. The Syndicate were her family, she wouldn’t give these men anything.

The man’s head snaps back after the words leave his lips, his skull cracking against his jaw and his lip splitting with the blow. There’s a grunt of pain, the taste of blood on his tongue, but he’s just as quick to respond with fingers yanking at his hair to slam his head back down against the table. And there’s still a gun in the man’s hand that he wants gone, and his fingers tighten on his wrist to bend in in the wrong direction until it snaps.

The cuffs follow, metal snapping around his wrist. But if he gets the black bag in hand next, it’s cut off by the pained shout next to him. His gaze flicks over to the sight of the woman staggering to her feet, one of his agents on the ground with a hand against his leg.

That combined with the blood in his mouth would’ve been enough to spark a mounting frustration, but it’s the shots that come next that tip the scales. His breath catches, because he can feel the air from a bullet rushing too close to his face. His gaze shifts in the direction of the fired shots, fixating on a woman back by the bar as she drags a bloodstained form along with her.

His fingers snap at the uniformed man closest to him, his name forgotten when they’re barely better than hired hands at this point. “Get this one bagged,” he snaps, before relinquishing his hold on him. He’d rather be the one to drag his body in, to set him down in front of Nixon and watch the old man tear his secrets from his tongue. But at this rate he’ll be leaving empty handed, and he stalks away from him to make another grab at the woman wielding broken glass. His fingers reaching for the hand she holds it in, intent on twisting it right from her grasp.

Dazed, he can only pull back against the twisting of his wrist so much. His desire to keep the grasp on his gun makes his fingers numb, the hand curling his wrist bending it to the point he has to grit his teeth, put everything he has into trying to keep that grip. It ruins him, in the end. The snap is palpable, shaking it’s way up his arm and the pain is so sudden he can’t help the sharp cry he gives, though it turns into a growl of anger and endurance. 

The hands leave him after that, talking going on behind him and he realizes he can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears, his own heartbeat pumping away like drums, a tune to this fight they’re in the middle of. He slumps down to his knees, pulling his arm back in front of him and his wrist is bent at the wrong angle. He grits his teeth, puffing his cheeks as he tries to grit his way through that intense, flaring pain. 

If anything, the familiar taste of blood, the slow fogginess of a head wound, a broken nose, a broken bone – it fuels him. It’s anger emanating from every pore he has. Every emotion he thought he lacked, he thought didn’t get stoked as anything more than smoldering kindling. It was here now. And as a hand lands on his shoulder, he whirls. Broken wrist be damned, he still has one working hand and he grabs the first thing he can get it on. A beer mug, discarded on the floor in the chaos. 

It’s a new Initiative agent behind him, but he doesn’t care in the moment. He swings himself to his feet, adrenaline and pain fueling a rage he’s not expressed since his father died. The beer mug gets smashed against the man’s face and it’s enough to bring him to the ground. Jackson doesn’t stop there. He should turn and help Ailie, he should regain focus and control, but his mind is muddled by blood and bruises. 

He doesn’t stop hitting the man. Not even when the mug shatters and he’s left with only the broken edges of the glass handle. If it embeds itself into his flesh, he busts open his knuckles on the man’s face anyway, hitting him with such ferocity and such strength – every ounce of energy he had left in him until the man’s face was nothing more than a bloody mess. Until his breath turned to gurgles.

If he was dying here, he was taking these bastards with him.  

Violence wasn’t something she’d ever been comfortable discussing, never mind witnessing it or even finding herself condoning it in this situation. But there was a sense of justice in it - that at least one of them should be causing as much destruction and pain as the Initiative had inflicted upon them. There had been too many years spent without mutants ever really taking the blood owed them from what had been shed by their brethren. Never before had she wanted the repayment but when suddenly face with it a small part of her, vastly outweighed by her worry and the way her fear was still making her chest constrict, that practically begged for it. Demanding retribution.

It didn’t take much other than to listen to know that both sides were giving as good as they got and Ailie was glad. Her only real hope, or at least the hope that she felt no guilt along with, was that they all got out of their safely and free from capture. She’d never been unfortunate enough for luck to desert her enough that she ended up captured but she knew enough to know that it wasn’t a position any of them deserved to be in.

That hope was soon crushed as soon as a hand encircled her wrist. 

Lucky had finally left her and despite the glass in her palm, fingers wrapped tightly around it as though it was a lifeline despite the way it was cutting flesh, Ailie knew that she was just as defenceless as before. Perhaps even more so. Having witnessed the man against Jackson, any lingering hope was extinguished by the knowledge that she didn’t stand a chance against him.

But that didn’t mean she was about to go quietly. There was no uncertainty in her mind that her brown eyes were probably wide and stricken with fear but that didn’t stop her from using her free hand to push on his chest, trying to drive her away from me. The captured wrist was held tightly but that didn’t stop her trying to pull it from his grasp. Ailie held her tongue, afraid that if she did speak then begging would leave her lips despite how little she wanted to ask this man for anything.

their physical weak spots

their emotional/moral weak spots

scars or painful spots

best places to kiss on their body

guilty pleasures

their vices (physical or emotional)

bad memories or experiences

humiliating memories

fears or phobias

bad or petty habits

grudges and vendettas

what gets them flustered

ingrained habits or forces of habit

what it takes to make them cry

dark secrets or skeletons in the closet

regrets

things they’ll never admit

people they’ve indirectly hurt or killed, and how it affected them

what-ifs or alternate timelines

He can’t tell what he’s going for when the man’s hand goes for his belt. If it’s a gun or a knife, either way he’s not stupid enough to believe himself invincible when it comes to either. Just the abilities granted to him by that flaw in his DNA, the coding writing him as a monster instead. The man kicks out at him, likely aware that he’s fighting for his life at this point.

Regardless, he’s quick to press the advantage he has, motions quick and carried out with a military precision. His grip on his gun shifts, bringing the butt of it down in a quick snap against the man’s temple. It doesn’t stop the foot from colliding with his legs, but it’s a small sacrifice for getting a grip around his arm to keep that weapon pointed down and away from him. It’s followed by another blow directed at the man’s head, his own gun still clenched tightly in hand. Then he’s yanking hard at his arm, twisting them both as he does with every intention of slamming him face down against the table next to them.

The woman is surprisingly stiff and quiet next to them, and if he’s been unwilling to divide his attention all that much when he believes the ma is a greater threat, half of him’s been braced for an attack to come while he’s not looking. His gaze flicks to her, head tilting for a moment to ensure he keeps her in his line of sight while he tries to hold the man down, but his eyes catch another agent first. The orders come quick and simply, emphasized with a jerk of his head. “Grab her.”

The blow has him staggering, the grip on his gun loosening slightly but he’s aware enough not to let go of it just yet. It’s his only line of defense in the moment and as soon as he loses it, he thinks he’s lost this fight. The man is faster than he thought he would be. Well trained and it’s more formal than anything Jackson has ever gone through. He’d spent so long honing his powers and while he’d sworn he would never use them as a crutch, he can’t help but think that’s exactly what they’ve become in recent years. Something to fall back on, something to have always. Except when faced with a Corinthian. 

Another blow to the temple has him seeing stars, a loud crack echoing in his head and there’s warmth on his face letting him know the man had drawn blood with the second blow. He staggers again before the world is turning and the man’s slamming him face first onto a table, bent at the waist. He imagines this is the part where the handcuffs come on. This is the part where the black bag gets put over his head. 

Only there’s a command issued from the man behind him. Grab her. And if nothing else, that helps clear some of the cobwebs from his head. Ailie. He can’t let her go to one of their facilities, he can’t let anything happen to her and it has him fighting back. He bucks his head backwards, intent on smashing it into the man’s face. Hopefully to break free and get that gun pointed back at him. 

“Don’t you touch her,” he warns, growling out between grit teeth. 

Except just as she’s about to make her move to follow her decision, fingers wrapping around her glass as though it might help,  there’s a man ordered to come at her. The glass slips from her fingers as she takes a hurried step back, trying to avoid him. Broken glass crunches under her shoes and she soon realises that there’s no running from this one. Jackson couldn’t save her from the second one either.

She had to fight. 

Finally she lifted her hands, not with her palms out and fingers stretched like she had the last time for the Syndicate when she’d caused part of the Initiative to crumble, but with fists balled in some weak imitation of what she’d seen others in this room do. The ridiculousness of how she must have look struck her and within seconds the hands were back by her side. She didn’t know how to handle someone coming at her like that. Her powers let her drop buildings on people but never in her life had she thrown a punch. 

So she took another half step back, footing becoming unstable on the now wet floor and causing her to fall. Now on the ground, shards of glass grazing her skin, Ailie was sure this was it. She’d failed just as she started trying. More gunshots rang out as she looked up at the man standing over her and while there was too much going on to be sure, she thought they sounded closer. It was enough to shake some clarity into her for once and her fingers found one of the fragments of glass, trying not to wince as she wrapped her fingers around it. Forcing herself to tighten her grip, biting her lip against the pain, she swung her arm out in an unpractised arc. The glass sliced through his leg, drawinng blood in a way that made her head spin but it gave her enough time to scramble to her feet.

But his attempt to take the woman into custody is derailed swiftly, the man reacting before he gets a good hold on her. She retreats and he’s greeted with a fist swinging towards him.

The motion is only what he expected ago, and if a moment ago it might’ve only widened the smile on his face, instead his lip’s curling in a sneer, attention shifting rapidly to the man attacking him. He doesn’t know his name yet, but he’s certain that he will. He’ll drag it from his throat himself if he has to, not a single crack left in his resolve to hold him back. His arm snaps up to try and catch the blow thrown at him, the other shifting his aim to try and shove the gun against his temple.

The urge to pull the trigger on both of them is a powerful thing, a desire to cut down everyone that might carry that power in their veins. And there isn’t a single shred of doubt in his mind that both of the people in front of him carry that ability, though the specifics of it might remain a mystery. Something destructive, something that can shake the foundations of an apartment complex or bring down buildings. Whether they themselves are responsible for that, or the other terrorists they ally themselves with, he’ll get his answers.

One, or both of them will be walking out of here in a black bag. If the other leaves in a body bag, that’s nothing he’ll lose sleep over. And somewhere over his shoulder he hears gunshots, proving that someone else probably will. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

There’s an intense awareness that behind him, Ailie remains quiet, backing away and he has an urge to tell her to run. To get out of here, but there’s nothing that comes from his throat. His attention is solely on getting that gun up towards the man, of getting that barrel pressed to his chest so he can pull the trigger. If a Corinthian was down, if he was out, then the others would be free to use their powers to get out of this and Jackson knew he had to take him out to give them any sort of fighting chance. 

As the gun comes up, he tries to kick out at the man’s leg as well, trying to throw everything he had at him all at once and give himself the best chance of bringing him down. There were yells and gunshots echoing all around them, but Jackson was hyper focused on the man in front of him and of the woman behind him that he was trying to protect. In the back of his mind, he knew there were others here he couldn’t let anything happen to, but by the sounds of it, he’d already failed in that task as well. 

No, someone who deserved their spot wouldn’t just be stood watching as another of their number fought for their life.

She’s barely aware of anything else going on around her. It all just fading too a dull noise and a blur around the scene in front of her. If her heart wasn’t already beating fast enough, what she sees next practically makes it stop. There’s a gun pressed against Jackson’s temple and it’s a miracle that Ailie doesn’t choke on the lump that forms in her throat. A hand rises to cover her mouth and prevent any horrified sound from escaping but she’s sure there’s still an audible gasp.

Gunshots fill the air, making her jump and for a heartbeat she almost expects to see Jackson hit the floor, even calling out his name through fingers that haven’t left her lips. But it doesn’t happen. Eyes stay focused on the fight in front of her rather than trying to find out who has fallen victim to a bullet. With so many guns in the room she hates to think about how many there could be. But she’s still frozen, captivated by the fight that somehow involves her even though she never asked it to.

For a moment he keeps his position in the door, watching men in black uniforms fan out and do as they’re told. The few who obeyed find themselves quickly cuffed, those that don’t, well, he’s unconcerned with whatever damage control they might have to do if they leave bodies behind.

It’s the glimpse of a man towards the corner of the room that draws his attention, because if it’s no one he’s ever met in person, he’s studied the black lines of a police sketch enough times that it’s committed to his memory. There’s a woman at the table next to him, a brief glimpse of her face before she’s ducking for cover, and he’s too far away to tell her it won’t save her.

He’s quick to want to fix that, feet carrying him swiftly across the room. And perhaps there shouldn’t be a smile on his face, but he can’t help the curve of his lips as he draws his gun from his holster.

With one hand it gets pointed towards the man he’s been hunting, the target that so many denied ever seeing. Including the redhead that works the counter here, lies spilled so readily off her tongue. There’s less bitterness for it when he’s still getting what he wanted, the chaos erupting in the room around him that’s secondary to the two in front of him. And it’s with his free hand that he makes a grab for the woman, fingers grasping for her arm. “I said hands up. You’re both under arrest.”

Not yet. 

“Biggest mistake of your life, walking in here,” he says calmly as the man approaches, telling them to put their hands up and that they’re both under arrest. They’re big words for a situation where Jackson has no control. He’s aware that somewhere at the other end of the bar, his siblings are handling this in their own way. Eli’s friends, more of the Syndicate, others who aren’t even involved but just caught in the wrong place and the wrong time. There were going to be failures today. Jackson was already accepting it. But that was just today. 

Eventually, this man would realize those words were true. Whatever was inflicted today, Jackson would make sure this man felt tenfold. And he’d remind him of this moment, when he’d made the mistake that would cost him his life. 

Its not until he’s reaching for Ailie that Jackson makes his move. While there’s a gun still tucked beneath his shirt, he doesn’t pull it quite yet, going for a more conventional swing of his fist towards the man and the gun stretched out towards him. He will not go down without a fight and he’d be damned if he let anyone in the room be taken while he was still standing. 

Jackson does more than she ever could, speaking out when her tongue remains lodged in her throat, blocking any possible words that might have come to her mind. She was barely aware of a hand reaching for her, threatening to arrest her and take her away to god only knew what. Hell on earth probably. But before she could end up caught in the man’s grasp, Jackson was stepping forward and swinging for the man, fighting for himself, her and everyone else in there when all she could do was stand and watch. It was times like these that could easily undo all her progress, though perhaps by some slight miracle her mind was too taken up by the situation unfolding than on that treacherous part of her that was always craving to tear her down.

Stepping back seemed like the safest thing for her to do, even if it made her feel even more like a coward. But she wouldn’t have been any help to Jackson had her focus been in tact, never mind the dazed state she was in now. The feeling was of deja vu from how she’d felt during the attack that they’d been the ones carrying out. Everything was overwhelming her and it was all she could to to try to stay focused on what was going on and not be a liability. It was bad enough that she was the reason Jackson was her, she doubted she could live with herself if anything happened to him. 

There was nothing she could do but stand helplessly and let someone else defend her. Brown eyes wide with worry as she couldn’t tear them away from the fight unfolding in front of her. Breath caught in her throat as tension built in her body, hating that she’d probably end up getting in the way more than anything if she chose to try to take some sort of action.

He doesn’t know if the bartender he met at Left Blank is one of those he’s hunting or not. But he won’t find any of those answers with casual conversation. It’s a thing better discovered with cuffs around their wrists, dragged from the building in black bags, and he’s prepared with both. As well as a team of officials that arrive in black vans behind him. The orders he gives are simple, to both the LAPD and Initiative agents. “Take all of them. Use deadly force if necessary.”

There’s a rush of adrenaline flowing in his bloodstream, an inability to keep the smile off his face when he yanks the doors open. The element of surprise is on his side, in more ways than one. His presence is a damning force, because if he is walking into a den of vipers they’ll find their venom ineffective when there’s a Corinthian standing in front of them. Maybe that’ll make some of them too bold, and maybe it’s cruel that he almost hopes for it when he shouts his orders, eyes sweeping the gathered crowd as his soldiers pour in behind him. “Hands up and on your knees!“

Until the front door swung open. He hadn’t even had a chance to start the small talk with her. Something simple, like music or cooking, something they both enjoyed. His eyes lifted to the man who’d just entered, and then to the agents that followed behind. For a brief moment, his gaze swung to everyone in the bar. All of their people, all of his family. Eli, Lia – everyone he cared about seemingly gathered here and the thought again that there was a traitor in their midst, one who brought the Initiative here was so immediate and angering, he found adrenaline pumping even before the agents finished piling in and started pulling people out of their seats. 

“Get down,” he turned to hiss to Ailie. If they were here, the first thing he needed to do was separate himself from her. Hopefully before someone could see she was sitting with him, just from proximity she’d be associated. He stood, hand holding out in front of him in an attempt to bring the agents to the ground, power usually coming to him easily. When it didn’t, he let his hand fall back down, standing there and watching the chaos for a moment, eyes coming to meet the man who’d first entered. 

There was still the gun tucked beneath his shirt and if anything, he’d take as many of them with him as he could. He gave a small smirk at the man, tipping his head as though to tell him well played.

Words to ask him how he’d been were on the tip of her tongue only to be held back as the door being opened with some force, causing her to jump slightly in her seat as it startled her. Everything seemed to move him slow motion. The words that the man spoke were lost to her ears as all she heard was a low buzzing, drowning out anything else as she struggled to avoid falling into panic as she watched agent after agent pour through. Slowly it dawned on her that Jackson had spoken to her, given her an order that she knew it would be in her interest to follow and probably the best thing for him too. But the words had to filter through the fog that her fear was creating and when they finally did she’d allowed herself to be frozen in place.

Finally she summoned the will to move, to take some cover even though she chose to remain close to Jackson. She was well aware that there was little she could do to help him, her experience in the field minuscule in comparison to his but she felt responsible. If it hadn’t been for her he wouldn’t be here in the first place. 

Her hands were trembling, her power rippling under her skin as if  it recognised it was a time for it to be used triggered by the terror she was feeling. Except nothing happened. The ground remained still, not even the slightest of tremors moving the earth beneath their feet. The power that she’d only just started to embrace ripped from her before she could even attempt to use it a second time against the Initiative. It wasn’t until that moment that she realised how much she’d relied on her powers over the years and now she was without them she felt bear. Defenceless.

It had been too long since Jackson had left the Estate. He’d tried to venture out to Lucky Lanes now and again, but the threat was still too real and he would never put the Syndicate in danger like that. But at the text from Ailie, and the lack of movement on the Initiative’s part, he agreed to come have a drink with her. Perhaps they’d simply stay in the back of Left Blank, or he’d keep his head down and leave at the first sign of recognition from someone he didn’t trust. Perhaps he was just being foolish heading out at all, but it was Ailie. And she’d asked him to share his company with her. He wouldn’t refuse. 

Keeping his head down, he stepped into Left Blank, eyeing the room and the inhabitants inside before he spotted Ailie. Heading over, he slid onto a barstool next to her, giving her a small smile that was only reserved for a certain few in the Syndicate. Most people, he’d be rougher with, he’d be colder with. Ailie had never been on that list and he wasn’t sure exactly how that happened, but it had. She was Syndicate and he was glad to have her here. 

“Busy tonight,” he said, giving her a small smile. There were many faces he knew here. His eyes fell on Eli for a moment, though they hadn’t spoken to each other since the awkward encounter in the Estate. He had every intention of talking to him tonight, but he settled on just a small tip of his head in greeting, focusing on Ailie instead. She was the reason he was here. 

She’d expected him to say no, to turn the request down because it was asking him to relinquish his safety but instead she’d been surprised when he’d said yes. So that was how she’d found herself sat in Left Blank, having tried to pick a table that was a little more out of the way in some attempt to make herself feel better about having dragged him out into the open. There were two glass in front of her, one cocktail for herself and a glass of scotch for Jackson. In her mind it was only fair for her to get the first round when she’d been the one to suggest it all in the first place. 

Brown eyes had been drifting over the room, smiling whenever she made eye contact with someone she new. Maybe another night she’d make time to drink with them too. The Scot saw Jackson come in, smiling at him as he did. She’d come to value his company and enjoyed their conversations so it was only natural she was pleased he’d came. With a little nod she agreed with his statement, returning his smile. “I don’t think I’ve seen so many of us in one place outside of a meeting.” Tentatively, she pushed the glass of scotch towards him. “I hope you don’t mind I got you this. If it’s not the right one then I’ll change it.”