stale cigarettes and pretty lies

“not unless i want them to. but it’s fine, if you don’t think you’re qualified, i’ll take care of it.”

“no, go on. this is entertaining.”

jamie has a natural knack for slipping around people unnoticed. he doesn’t do much planning or preparation when he’s asked to do a job. a fact which, has on occasion, scared those hiring him. telling government people that he’ll just ‘wing it and see what happens’ is never reassuring, but hey, he gets it done, usually without issue, so they never complain. or well, not to his face, when he’s sipping a coffee and handing them what they asked for as if he’d just run to the store to get milk. dealing with moriartys just seems to have that effect on people.

point being, nobody pays him any attention as he’s making his way through the building, looking very much like he shouldn’t be there. hands in the pockets of his jeans, boots still holding some mud from their weekend hike, faded leather jacket over an equally faded tshirt – he doesn’t fit in here at all. those that do stop to give him a look are pacified by the man’s bright smile, the air around him suggesting he could never do anything wrong ever in his life – and people usually believe it. 

he’s been given all the information he needs, locations and passcodes (or at least a handy device that makes passcodes unnecessary. ah the joys of being friends with mi6 – even if jamie can pick just about any lock). so the man heads straight for the office; he just needs a file, which he’ll memorize then burn, per the contract. he doesn’t need anything else, but that doesn’t mean if he sees something of interest he won’t take it. he doesn’t need the money, but if there’s an intriguing book or small trinket well… he hardly thinks that’ll be the main concern in the fuss.

nobody is supposed to be here, so imagine his surprise when the door is already open. and jamie, though never one for confrontation, also likes to get in the way and push his luck. so he’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, because he’s a genius, sure, but it doesn’t take one to know that the guy who is here also shouldn’t be. casual grin on his lips as he watches for a moment before he’s breaking the silence with a mischievous “well, this is a predicament, isn’t it.”

     He might have noticed someone coming up behind him--had he not just gotten the safe open. The gentle rustling of locked away valuables covered the sound of soft footfalls, the sudden sound of a voice behind him giving him more of a start than he would have liked to admit. For a moment he felt his heart stall, his body tensing even as his mind began formulating lies, plans of action, any excuse to walk away. A shame the voice didn’t register immediately, either--had he not been kicking himself for not paying enough attention he would have saved himself a bit of grief. 

     Tucking away the file in his hand with small, practiced motions, Gabe cleared his throat and turned to face the other intruder, already planning his escape should he need to bolt. Of course that would mean, regrettably, that he would have to leave the rest of the safe’s contents behind, but the papers tucked away in the breast pocket of his jacket would be worth the effort, at least. 

     “Now, I know how this looks, but would you believe--” A pause, the words dying in his throat once his gaze fully settled on the man in front of him. The room was dark, sure, but not so dark that Gabe couldn’t make out familiar features of a man he had once known. Was his mind playing tricks on him? There was no possible way they could both be standing there, in that office, at the same time--not after everything that had happened between them. A cruel joke, maybe--the universe was good at those. 

     “No shit.” Whether it was a conscious decision or not, he wasn’t sure, but the English accent he had adopted melted away in an instant. “What, did you hear that I was in London now and decided to follow me? I mean, I’m flattered that I’ve got a stalker, but now’s really not the time for this. Couldn’t we have caught up over drinks or something?”

     Despite the tone of his voice, he was already grinning, body relaxing despite the fact that they were not yet out of danger. Far from it, in fact. If he kept talking he was likely to attract attention, no matter how low he kept his voice, and yet he hardly seemed to care. Two people had walked past several security guards and nothing had happened; he could have probably blown the safe open and walked out without a second glance.

london will never be ‘home’ because jamie will never have a ‘home’, but it’s close enough. the bookshop is safe, a comfort, an anchor that keeps him grounded in existence. something that gives him a reason to push forward through each day. he’s made enough money in his contracts by now that he could settle and be well off several lifetimes over, which is tempting sometimes. the promise of peace. but jamie doesn’t really know what peace is anymore.

he’s mostly just been doing runs across the country. things he can handle in a week, maybe two tops. sometimes he goes mainland, but generally sticks to things that won’t keep him from his books for too long. that, and what won’t keep him from the safety that is london – he’s protected here. a quietly important figure that the government keeps a careful eye on. not to monitor (though a little to monitor) but more so because of what he’s done for them. they understand his work is… complicated. exhausting. that he’s lived through far too many traumas for such a short period of time, and particularly given he’s not an actual agent to anyone, it’s a miracle he’s alive. 

so they watch him, and they leave him alone, and when he does questionable runs across the city, they turn a blind eye. it’s been a quiet year since he’s come ‘home’, since he’s established a life and a routine. he’s content, maybe a bit complacent, but working full time like that again sounds… daunting, if he’s honest. but the adventure never truly leaves, the wanderlust never completely settles out of a person’s bones, so when the government is calling him back in for the ‘last time, we swear’, he’s accepting. it’s not hard, just apparently ‘vital’ or something. not even out of the country. easy as pie.

or so one would think. but nothing ever goes right, does it.

     People were lazy, and that was just a fact. For a brief moment on his first ‘day on the job’ Gabe had worried that England was different, that they cared a little more, put a little more effort into things than they did back home. But, as it turned out, that wasn’t the case at all. Luckily people were just as careless, even when it came to vital information. Hell, swiping an ID card from someone’s desk had been as easy as smiling and saying hello. Didn’t people realize how stupid they were? He was really going have to file a complaint with HR about this.

     Getting in after hours was easy. When you had access to things, nobody bothered to stop you and ask what you were doing. As long as he looked like he knew what he was doing--and he almost always did--he could walk out of a building with practically anything he wanted. He looked the part, talked the part, walked the part. Nobody gave him a second glance, not when he fit in like the last, laser-cut jigsaw piece. A smooth fit, slightly different and uniform all at the same time. 

     Perfect.

sent by @fallingorflying     //     ‘ i have no idea what i’m doing, but i know i’m doing it really, really well. ’

              He emits a quiet chuckle and turns his eyes down to the arrangement of papers in the folder in front of him. It’s atypical for Regulus to be so hands-on in the acquisition process but this is a new department—and a special brainchild of his own. Small businesses and local brands have been a growing consumer favorite for some time and, ironic though it may seem, the international luxury brands conglomerate is interested in establishing a foothold; there are many strong partnerships to be made between the small, local business and the large corporation.

              Good PR, that’s what it is.

              “That seems to be true enough,” he replies, scanning the charts and figures, “Your reviews are more than exemplary.” Though Regulus knows better than most how easy it is to flood a market with the reviews of one’s choosing. “We’re interested in supporting your company but I’d like to learn a little more about the product you’re making.” 

    A laugh of his own returned, the anxiety prickling at his skin completely non-existent from his face. Small schemes were usually his forte, and while he had been known to delve deeper into bigger (and better) quarries, he had abstained from doing so for some time. So long, in fact, that it came as a surprise when Regulus asked for more information. Wasn’t he presented with enough bullshit paperwork to satisfy any curiosity he might have? They had worked hard on it after all, make it all official looking and everything. Why was it so hard taking someone’s money, anyway?

     “Ah, right--I assume the packet we put together was a little more on the stiff side of things. I hate all that fussy, legal jargon myself.” And so did Regulus, apparently. “I mean...this is just my business, it’s not like I’m the one out there doing all the work, of course, but I am the designer. And, trust me when I say this, we have the single most brilliant minds behind production. Once we get off the ground we’ll be bigger than Apple, I promise you.”

     Another laugh, a casual switch of one leg crossing over the other. The part about ‘brilliant minds’ really wasn’t a lie--Charley was good enough with technology to bullshit her way through anything. If he needed a prototype she could whip one up in an hour from an old TV and some scrap parts, he was sure. But would it work for long? Probably not. This con would have to be over quick.

     Settling into a new place was never easy, but getting used to London had been almost impossible. Not only did he feel incredibly out of place, but the city was completely different than New York in almost every way. Nearly an entire month passed before Gabe was able to remember where the hell he even lived; it seemed every time he left his house he found himself spectacularly lost in a maze of streets. But, as with everything he did, things slowly became second nature, and although he didn’t know the city as well as would have liked he at least memorized his neighborhood.

     Baby steps.

    Leaving New York had meant leaving a lot; his cat, for one thing, was living with his friend Elijah. His apartment had been left a disaster, just like it always looked, and his bank account had been more or less frozen. Charley had helped get him some money to keep himself afloat, but after a month he was low on funds, meaning he was going to have to get creative. But as long as he kept his head down it would be fine; he wasn’t an idiot, and he knew exactly what he was doing. More or less. 

     Los Santos might have been a brand new world, but it was at least somewhat familiar; there were crowds, tall buildings, more cars than there were parking places and flickering neon signs everywhere he turned. The city was something Gabe understood, even if it wasn’t the picturesque movie scene he had imagined while living back in Liberty City. The culture shock had hit hard initially, but it didn’t take long to realize that decadence, crime and substance abuse was just as common as it had been back home. That was, in an odd sort of way, a comfort. A familiar island in a vast, empty sea.

    And then there was Sandy Shores--the bizarre, alternate dimension that seemed to be somehow both stuck in the old west and the Twilight Zone all at the same time.

     After checking his account and realizing his money was running critically low, Gabe had begun feeling antsy. His own bad habits cost him, and without steady work he knew he was heading into the darkness at alarming speeds. His normal dealer had warned him about coming back without enough money and the people he called friends weren’t exactly adopters of the whole ‘sharing is caring’ attitude. Someone had, however, mentioned that a multitude of drugs were pretty easy to find out in Blaine County if you didn’t mind toothless meth-heads cutting their products with things battery acid and baby laxatives. Desperate times, right?

     Seven minutes to midnight and each passing second felt excruciating, like glass beneath his skin. How long would he be able to wait here? Ten more minutes, tops? Desperation clung to him, as did the faint sheen of sweat that had left him feeling sick and clammy. The night air was cool enough for a spring night in Los Angeles--somewhere in the high sixties, probably--but hardly cool enough for the way Gabe felt. Somehow it seemed as though his body was burning itself from within, and yet he felt himself beginning to tremble so badly that he could hardly tell where the chills ended and the regular shakes began. Withdrawals were hell and if this guy didn’t show up soon he was absolutely positive that he would die right there on the sidewalk.

     Another minute passed, the faint blue glow from his phone’s screen illuminating his face for the briefest moment before disappearing into the pocket of his dark hoodie. Frustration began to take hold of him, mingling with the anxiety that had constantly been whispering in his ear. This was a bad idea, he was stupid to go to someone new, someone he didn’t trust. But he couldn’t stand being in his own skin anymore and if he didn’t get relief soon--

    No. He didn’t need to think about then. All he needed to worry about was now. A distraction, something to satisfy one of his other cravings, something to chase away even the faintest symptoms. The pack of cigarettes in his pocket was still mostly full at least, and lighting up would kill a couple of minutes. As long as this guy was punctual--and not some kind of psychopath--then everything would be fine.

[To: Meryl Streep] you left me on read for 3 fucking hours???

[To: Meryl Streep] i could have fucking died??