time wasn't in our favor

He’s definitely taking in the sight of the old injuries, even if it’s just from the corner of his eye while he takes something else from the duffel bag on the floor and shoves it beneath the pillow where he’ll be sleeping.

The country’s strict gun laws didn’t keep officers from being shot at, he knew that much, but the amount of healed scars littering Blaine’s form, ones that looked to much like his own, was surprising and had him wondering about the detective even more.

Was he unlucky or too slow?

“That’s about the only thing Sasha is good for, seeing as he didn’t care much about your, ah, entrance then.”

His accent jumps out with the name, said more traditionally, and he allows himself to wonder how badly said dog was bothering his neighbor right then.

“You aren’t handsy in your sleep, are you?” he remarked, back into the air of lighthearted teasing, standing up to pull on the matching sleep pants.

Heh, what a nice dog. Sasha was a change of pace from a guard dog or two recalled in Blaine’s memories. The Agonni family owned large hounds dedicated to protecting their family from potential hits, but that was a time where Blaine needed to sneak around. He’s no longer in his prime, so he quietly thanks Sasha for minding its business.

Blaine sits back down in his chair after getting fully clothed, stretching his legs out.

He silently gasps, narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean by… No, of course not! I tend to keep my hands to myself, thank you very much.”

"Perhaps if you aren't too busy this week, you'd be able to make that visit we talked about. The Nest is where I'll be heading once my stay in London is done."

The city itself still left quite a lot to be desired in terms of safety, but it wasn't as if Bronev could control everything; the citizens under his power were much more welcoming, even if some didn't want to be. It was relatively safe if one stayed close to Targent.

He wasted no time in changing from his outer clothes, damp from the drizzle outside. He knew he should hang them up to dry, but after the day they’d had, he didn’t care much if nothing was done.

“Well, Kodh was a good idea, if the ruins there still have a habit of blocking airwaves, but we might run into trouble of our own with communications if we choose to follow through with that.”

Settling back on the bed, he looked toward the other curiously, eyeing the bullet hole in his shirt and the scars that trailed down his exposed arms.

Blink. Hesitation. A soft sigh.

“How are you?” he asked finally.

“Do we have anyone we trust to send comms to?” 

     He sounds… Tired. Tired is a word Jean will allow to be used to describe himself. The week had begun with himself torching everything of value, shooing Elizabeth into the thick forests of Ambrosia in hopes that she’d not be found by any more investigative Targent usurpers. Forced into hiding with his father, scrambling for purchase in an otherwise uncaring world. 

     His vision is blurry, the removal of his glasses revealing the room to be a soft blur of shapes and colors. Bronev’s voice is clear, by contrast. He trusts that the man is looking at him when he speaks, though Jean has his back to him. He sighs. It’s fine. 

"I've already contacted Emmy. She's somewhere in Canada now, I believe, and won't be returning until this is sorted out one way or another; her decision."

Reaching out to her again would be dangerous, but possible if necessary. The elites came to mind and he sighed, looked back to the gun, then down at the covers.

The choking scent of Blaine’s cologne had flooded the room like a wave the moment he’d entered before, mingling with the smell of a freshly lit cigarette that clung to Bronev; all in all, a bit nauseating- he had half a mind to light another, but this wasn’t a smoking room.

He’d keep to that moral until stress or annoyance pushed him past it anyway.

With the comment, he paused, just briefly, the muscles in his back coming to a still to show that despite his age, he was very physically fit, and he had definitely heard Blaine’s whispered exclamation.

“Forgive my presumption this was fine; I’m unused to sharing quarters.”

He slipped the sweatshirt on over his head, brushing his hair out from the collar, and glanced back over his shoulder at the detective as if he was expecting something else.

Wrinkling his nose, Blaine hunches over and fidgets with his gloves while sparing a glance at Bronev. 

“Good grief, you’re alright. I was simply caught off-guard.” And he was wrong to. He’s participated in his own fair share of gang wars and criminal violence, but the amount of collateral done to this old guy’s body over the years shows. He’s not messing with Bronev, period.

He’s careful to stand up and remove his suit in a swift manner, but his movements are messier than in his early youth. Blaine’s skin has some blots, healed gunshot wounds, and leftovers from experiencing the underworld. Most of the damage shows in his arms with clean slash marks and bullet grazes.

His gloves are never coming off.

Blaine changes into his striped Chanel pajamas, clearly bought firsthand, and folds everything onto the chair.

The country's strict gun laws didn't keep officers from being shot at, he knew that much, but the amount of healed scars littering Blaine's form, ones that looked to much like his own, was surprising and had him wondering about the detective even more.

Was he unlucky or too slow?

"That's about the only thing Sasha is good for, seeing as he didn't care much about your, ah, entrance then."

His accent jumps out with the name, said more traditionally, and he allows himself to wonder how badly said dog was bothering his neighbor right then.

“Oh, I see.” Well, at least he sounded relieved to know that the younger hadn’t been injured, but now he was curious who he’d procured the garment from.

Luckily for Jean, it seemed he was going to respect his privacy, at least for now.

He shed his coat and hung it on the bedpost, stretched his arms, and leaned down to untie his shoes.

“I don’t think we should stay here for more than a couple nights, just to be safe.”

Jean ran fingers through his hair, teasing out knots and mussing up where it had begun to fall limp. His glasses were moved to the night stand, sitting adjacent to the pitiful phone that was always commonplace in such motels. 

“Do you have any place in mind, for after this?” He had his own ideas, mind jumping between points and references faster than it should, given the hour. 

"Well, Kodh was a good idea, if the ruins there still have a habit of blocking airwaves, but we might run into trouble of our own with communications if we choose to follow through with that."

Settling back on the bed, he looked toward the other curiously, eyeing the bullet hole in his shirt and the scars that trailed down his exposed arms.

Blink. Hesitation. A soft sigh.

The irritation bleeding from Blaine’s voice only succeeds in eliciting a larger smirk. “Try not to miss me too much, when you depart.”

The clothes he sat on the bed were plain, a gray sweatshirt and soft matching trousers. Sure, it wasn’t exactly on par with the outfit the detective produced, which earned him a snort, but it looked comfortable enough.

Bronev unbuttoned his vest, apparently not seeing any value in excusing himself from the room to do so, and the dress shirt he wore underneath quickly followed, exposing the expanse of his back he kept turned to the other.

Deep scars littered his shoulders, mauled skin that looked as if it had been burned in a few places even, and his upper left bore the titular icon of Targent, a two-faced bird with one eye. If a gaze was on him, he didn’t notice- or didn’t care.

“As if.” 

He needed to cool off after a hard day’s work of examining a corpse and sorting through evidence. Motherfucker stank, but Blaine’s wearing five layers of vanilla perfume to mask the scent of death. It was for his own sanity to spray a lot of it around.

(Now, he’s down to five bottles compared to the seven that he started with today.)

Catching sight of Bronev’s marks and the exposed brand boring down into him, Blaine stares and finally blinks once he’s understood what he’s looking at. He bites his lower lip, side-glancing over to the room’s wallpaper in the high hopes that things wouldn’t get awkward.

Blaine whispers, adjusting his cuffs. “… Oh, damn.”

He'd keep to that moral until stress or annoyance pushed him past it anyway.

With the comment, he paused, just briefly, the muscles in his back coming to a still to show that despite his age, he was very physically fit, and he had definitely heard Blaine's whispered exclamation.

"Forgive my presumption this was fine; I'm unused to sharing quarters."

“Oh, you’ve dropped the mister? I didn’t know we were that close, Dartwright.”

No more ‘detective’, it seems, and Bronev looks more than amused by it.

In his own bag, that he kept zipped and nudged halfway beneath the bed until he proceeded to search it for a change of clothes, he had the overnight necessities similar to Blaine, though buried at the bottom was the same gun he’d threatened the man with a few weeks prior.

“How long are you booked for this room? I myself have 3 nights- simply curious if we’ll need to be in each other’s company longer than just tonight.”

Blaine puffs, annoyed. “Stop it. I’d rather die than consider you my acquaintance, or even so, a friend. I’m only tolerating your presence, that’s all.”

He can’t pity the elderly when they’re in charge of a massive organization that’s stronger in power than the Yard. He yanks out his pajamas, proceeding to remove his fancy, leather shoes. They’re in need of an early morning cleaning, but that’ll be dealt with after waking up.

His eyes dart to the clock, then back to Bronev. “Only a night. I’ll be departing later after waking up. I’m on the move a lot, it’s needed as I’ve investigated a crime scene for the past few hours.”

The clothes he sat on the bed were plain, a gray sweatshirt and soft matching trousers. Sure, it wasn't exactly on par with the outfit the detective produced, which earned him a snort, but it looked comfortable enough.

Bronev unbuttoned his vest, apparently not seeing any value in excusing himself from the room to do so, and the dress shirt he wore underneath quickly followed, exposing the expanse of his back he kept turned to the other.

The flushed look is noted. He looked back to the gun, then sat it on the bedside table beside where he’d be sleeping.

“They are pretty comfortable, though I admit I’m curious about the bullet hole. Were you shot recently?”

It’s innocent, he has simply no way of knowing, and it’s tinged with concern in the question.

“It isn’t. Ah-      Mine. At least, originally.” 

     This was designed to be an exercise in patience. How long could Jean stand it before he threw himself to the wolves, and left himself exposed to the mercies of a Targent under the influence of a dictator. 

Luckily for Jean, it seemed he was going to respect his privacy, at least for now.

He shed his coat and hung it on the bedpost, stretched his arms, and leaned down to untie his shoes.

“I believe you think yourself more important of my time than you really are.” This was said laced with humor, though he was sure the detective wouldn’t take it that way- not that he particularly cared.

The room was finely decorated, a nice choice for the night if neither of them had to share. He claimed the left side of the bed, sitting his bag down next to it.

“What would those at Scotland Yard have to say, knowing the detective inspector was rooming with the Targent commander?” He seemed almost smug.

Blaine scowls at the old-timer, stretching out his arms. His own duffel bag is settled next to the chair he’s sat in, hands reaching down to unzip it. Necessary items such as his toothbrush, lenses cleaners, sleepwear, and everything needed to keep Blaine secure is right inside. He’s keeping the brass knuckles buried underneath everything else, that’s for emergencies.

No more 'detective', it seems, and Bronev looks more than amused by it.

In his own bag, that he kept zipped and nudged halfway beneath the bed until he proceeded to search it for a change of clothes, he had the overnight necessities similar to Blaine, though buried at the bottom was the same gun he'd threatened the man with a few weeks prior.

The older man’s gaze was thoroughly trained on a pistol he’d removed from the bottom of the bag, eyeing the sight and examining the magazine before reloading it and finally glancing up

Judging by the way an eyebrow raised, he definitely noticed the company shirt the other wore.

“Didn’t know you had one of those.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” The reply is rushed, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Part of the reason he was hoping to avoid sharing a room. At least the bullet hole in the shoulder was less noticeable on his frame, than the original owner’s. 

“It’s fairly comfortable, I should probably get a few more.” 

"They are pretty comfortable, though I admit I'm curious about the bullet hole. Were you shot recently?"

“Excuse me? You’re not going to slit my throat in my sleep, so there’s nothing to worry about.” 

There’s no way in Hell that he’s rooming with Bronev, but he’s rooming with Bronev. Blaine already spent his hard-earned cash on the hotel room - he’s not uncomfortable sharing it with an acquainted stranger. At the same time, he doesn’t know if he should keep the gloves on or off when asleep.

The room was finely decorated, a nice choice for the night if neither of them had to share. He claimed the left side of the bed, sitting his bag down next to it.

“This is far from my standards, trust me.” He chuckled at the reaction he received, the way Descole stood there in annoyance, like he was waiting for Bronev to make the first move.

He did, it was just to sit on the edge of the bed and drag the duffel bag over, rifling through it for a spare shirt.

“Do you need something to wear to bed?”

“I’ve got something.” 

     His voice trailed, following him as he slid into the bathroom. The light turning on, and the rattling vent fan destroyed any chance for conversation has he sorted through his own clothing, settling on a worn Targent t-shirt, and a pair of sweat pants.

Judging by the way an eyebrow raised, he definitely noticed the company shirt the other wore.

“You’re asking too much of one of these cheap motels. I told them to give me what they had available.”

The archeologist watched the other inspect the mattress, then double-checked the locks on the door, making a face when he found the throw latch a bit loose.

“The bed is big enough for both of us, unless you’re so inclined. I don’t intend to sleep on-,” he looked down at the floor, at the ratty carpeting that looked like it needed a deep clean, “-that.”

“I’m not expecting too much. Your standards are just abysmal.”

    Sharing a bed. Eugh. His face showed his disinterest in the concept, a lopsided frown as the thought set in. He hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in well.. Excluding a few impromptu naps at the nest, ever. 

He did, it was just to sit on the edge of the bed and drag the duffel bag over, rifling through it for a spare shirt.

He settled his bag on the floor and went over to pull the curtains shut, blocking out the light from the streetlamp.

“I think you’re being a bit dramatic.”

There was a slight hint of amusement to his voice, though he obviously wasn’t very content with the sleeping arrangements either. However, there was only so much that could be done at this hour.

“It wouldn’t be as safe to take separate rooms anyway.”

“You could’ve gotten a room with two separate beds. Or a bed and a sofa. Something that wasn’t this. “ 

     It did well to show how comfortable Jean was, that he was fussing like this. His own bag had been placed on the tile floor of the bathroom, and long strides took him to the corner of the mattress, checking for debris in the seam of the piping. Lucky then, that there weren’t bed bugs.

    He let out an exhale, shoulders slumping. 

The archeologist watched the other inspect the mattress, then double-checked the locks on the door, making a face when he found the throw latch a bit loose.