friction.

– ♔ An unspoken tension lingers between the two people, gaze lingering long enough to form an awkward notion as she waits expectantly. “Go on then.” Silence breaks with a click of tongue meeting teeth, full lips forming a wicked grin; “It’s rude to refuse a drink from a lady.” Has she poisoned it, maybe or maybe she’s drugged it. Or perhaps there’s nothing wrong with it, only one way to find out.

         “Rude as it may be, I have a strong inclination toward keeping my mind clear when I’m working.” A stack of manila folders occupied the space before him, including the one in his hands that included information on upcoming jobs. Requests, photos, receipt of payment all therein and more --- Deacon offered a pressed smile to the daughter of his boss. “But thank you for the offer, Miss Pragonis.”

Parker’s got his nose in the fridge, hungry eyes scan it’s insides while he’s getting ideas on what to concoct with it’s ingredients. He could make a sandwich, or a burrito, but he isn’t really sold on either. “So, I’m just free to use anything in here right?” he asks.

         “I don’t know.” Or care. Deacon’s time spent in the clubhouse was so willfully unimpressive that he hadn’t bothered to learn the semantics of the rules of food in the place. He knew that when he came, if he was hungry, he took whatever he wanted. It’d been however many years and there hadn’t been any complaints. Like now, he sat at one of the further islands with some form of meaty sandwich and a glass of water to wash it down. His assumption that he was who the mousy boy spoke to came only from the fact that the kitchen was otherwise empty. “Eat whatever you want. See what happens.”

Her body is perched up on the couch, lounging with comfort, while her nose is stuck in a book. This is the first time she been able to feel at ease during her stay at the Clubhouse, and as much as she’d hate to admit it, she’s beginning to feel used to being here. Her relaxation comes from the late hour, she assumes everyone is asleep. So, when she hears the steps of someone else entering the room, a startled Shane jolts her head up. “Oh,” she hums out, “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

         “Shouldn’t you?” It doesn’t come of as so much an accusation as it is a counter-point. The late hour expected that most of the house’s denizens would be snoozing in any attempt to collect themselves for the potential tribulations of the next day. There were those, like himself, that worked into the wee hours of the night --- his return to the house (while business oriented, certainly) was forecasted to be a perpetually late one. Though he doesn’t move from the doorway, merely shifts himself to press a shoulder into the frame.

SHE gives a nod of agreement. drugs seeped into most of the residents here. leaving them in a haze. jennifer on the other hand saw it as weakness. like deacon she was absolute in her cause within the club house. she prided herself on a level head in order to get into other peoples heads. “ just accept i’d rather be in your company. ” she huffs. smile lazy. but inviting. she sought nothing other than good company. someone on her own mental capacity. someone sane. at his questioning smile softens. “ so picky… ” she grumbles teasingly before outstretched hand drops. instead eyes drop from him and she grasps her phone mindlessly clicking until a hum of exciting jazz ripples through the air around them. setting the phone down on his desk the movement causes her to reach behind him before straightening. leaning forward she grasps his hands, smile growing, blooming. yes she was pushy. ( hopefully not annoying ) steps find a rhythm and she encourages him to move with her. “ come on. half a hour. then i’ll leave you to it? ” she’s playful again, because lower lip juts into a weak attempt at a pleading pout. 

         Too often there was an argument ready on Deacon’s tongue: some sort of excuse or rationalization to get out of social obligations, work to bind his hands and keep him from needing to interact with the members of the Anserini outside of the simple flow of things. When the jazz parted through the air like Moses and the Red Sea he merely sucked a breath with the knowledge that there would be no worming his way out of this particular social situation. Fucking cellphones. At first he’s stiff to the sway, eyes narrowing as she reaches for his hands and grasps them forward. Her encouragement is, at the very list, a little amusing though it’s her promise of a time table that cracks the facade of the all-too-serious forger. Rather than accepting just bouncing back and forth as most people did with dancing, Deacon shifts his hold on her hand and tugs her forward. Free palm comes to rest at the ridge of her lower back, fingers wrap around the purlicue of her palm. If they were going to dance they would do it right, and a man of his age knew the proper way. “Half an hour.” The confirmation was soft, as to not disturb the jazz (as if it could be disturbed).

 Anger bubbles dangerously close to spilling over, hardened gaze towards the other with intent. It’s not the touch itself so much as the GULL that they have, that she’s here to be played with. Maybe if she was younger or weaker, they’d be able to get away with it. If she wasn’t LINKED to a particular blonde psychopath, maybe they wouldn’t fear for their lives after. “Touch me again – I’m sure R O S E would love to hear about it.”

         “There’s no reason for that.” Deacon’s voice was crisp against the harsh words of the brunette, though it wasn’t pointed at her. The forger never bothered to take his eyes off of his cellphone even, merely rose a hand to wave off the handsy other. “Go. Get out of my sight. Wash your hands. Read a book. Learn the fundamentals of human existence. Jerk off --- something else. Leave.” A pause, finally his dark hues flickered, “If I need to tell you again I’ll remove you from her myself.” His stare remained until the man made the better of decisions, though Deacon imagined he didn’t quite get the message. He made a mental note of where he went to, if only to follow up on the lesson later. “People in this house lack self-control. It’s disconcerting.”

JENNIFER can’t ( and doesn’t ) stop the sly smile that greets him at his words. “ that’s the thing, mr.valence. they’re always so eager. itching for something… ” green eyes flicker to the workload splayed across his desk with disinterest. “ they’re boys. i want a mans company. ” finalization rings clear in her tone as she steps further from the doorway and towards him. arms which had been folded across her chest surrender and instead she raises her arm. she outstretches her hand to him. “ it’s always work with you. you could use some fun. ” smile easily melts into a grin, bright, excited. “ come. dance with me? ”

         “That’s because most of them are on drugs.” His tone was so matter-of-fact --- disapproving, as if the current generation of hitmen in the club disappointed him more than not. They did. Most of the club member did, now. “If you’re looking for a man’s company, I’m sure you need only peer into the dark corners of the club house. Depending on the company.” Deacon was no stranger to the salacious nature of those in the house. He’d always bowed out of it, and even now with a captive under his belt he had no inclination to start. “There’s no music, Ms. Thomas. Are we meant to dance to silence?”

JENNIFER stands, back to her newfound company.  “ this week has been slow. i’m getting bored. what about we have some fun?” turning to face them now her emerald eyes are full of earnest ( interest ) as she finds their form. ( did she know them? ) did that matter? 

         His attention was nowhere near Ms. Thomas or whatever it was she was speaking about. When he was in the house of the Anserini he was there to work, not to play or mess around. Deacon’s attention only shifted up when he felt her attention fully flush onto his form, and without skipping a beat he responded. “Perhaps one of the hit men would be of better service for your suggestion, Ms. Thomas. I’ve got a lot of work to do myself, and I doubt we have the same idea of what’s entertaining.”