I'm a serious writer, I swear

I just wanted to say that I LOVE your Criminal Cases works bc I adore David Jones and finfing fics has been a pain in the ass and yours are cheff kisses

I hope you're ok and healthy and stable and fine and I really hope to keep finding more of you in my tl. ❤️

—🌷

/blows a kiss

Hello this made my day, thankyou so much?? I'm genuinely caught off guard haha. I'm glad you enjoy them! He's a lot of fun.

It had been such an innocent question, slipped casually into water cooler chatter, and you had agreed without thinking about it. In that moment you hadn't been thinking about anything, had you, and wasn't that the problem? Ever since you had learned about Z-- had learned about what your partner had been up to while you were off, things had been so tense, even if you were both stubbornly pretending nothing had changed. But right then, just for a moment, it had been like old times, and you hadn't been thinking.

And so, yeah, why not? had just slipped out, and then it was too late to take back.

You laugh, and it's genuine, as you tilt your head back and down a swallow from your own bottle. The beer is a little more bitter than what you prefer, but it's cold, and the chill as it slides down your throat is second to none. There's nothing that compares to a cold brew on a hot night with a good friend - in your humble opinion, of course.

"A solid four out of ten," you tease, winking at him. "You lose a point for the face Grace made when she saw your wine was coming out of a carton."

"Better than my last English test," he crows triumphantly, reaching out for a high five, and you roll your eyes at his tomfoolery. While doing so you catch a glimpse of what he's done behind you, and it's pretty impressive. Turns out a tablecloth hiding what exactly is making all those lumps look so suspicious does wonders for a quick fix.

You were the only one left there, at Jones' first-barbeque-of-the-summer-fiesta, and it sure had been an experience. It was your first time really seeing the team outside of work, as a group, and in your heart of hearts, you weren't sure you could look them all in the eye come Monday morning. Nathan had been the first to make his excuses to leave, right as the sun hit the horizon - then Alex, when he got an irate phone call demanding he pick up milk on his way home, then Grace, and it had all gone swimmingly. You and Jones had been puttering around, tidying up, until he realized you were helping because you were planning to leave, too.

Anyway, somehow now he looked like he was coming out of a murder scene, his lawn looked like the murder victim, and you weren't sure he was [i]ever[/i] going to find all that had been left of the potato salad. Well, the smell would make it easier, but...

"What's so funny?" he asks, startling you out of you reverie, not so much offended as genuinely baffled. It was charming, in its own way, that he knew his joke wasn't going to be that amusing, and he still tried to make you laugh.

"Nothing I feel like sharing with the class," you tell him, honestly if not with a grin of your own, and he nods.

"I get that," he agrees, holding your gaze for a second too long, and then laughing at himself. He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Boy, do I."

Something about the way he says it makes you wonder, makes you want to push - there's a big trail of breadcrumbs there he's leaving for you to follow, but you bite your tongue. He let you keep your secret this time, and you aren't sure what you'd unearth if you pushed.

The silence that settles over the pair of you is comfortable. The air is warm, the night is still, and the beer is cold. The fireflies dance, either somewhere far in the distance and very big, or somewhere nearby and very small.

The two of you - you, yourself, and Jones, your once partner and now once-again partner - moved from pool of lamplight to pool of lamplight, leaning on each other and laughing as you reminisced and recounted stories. At some point, you realized, it had become you leaning and laughing, and whenever your words trailed off into a sodden, warm haze, Jones was quick to prompt you again. It seemed he wanted to know everything that had happened in the time you were gone, to know every person you had met in the same intimacy you had, and your loose tongue was more than willing to keep moving.

You wanted to share this with him, you thought, comfortably numb. You wanted him to know.

After a long second- an eternity, especially in a place like this- the thing at the other end of the desk turned their head. The lights buzzed overhead, glinting off their glasses, their expression unreadable. They perched there, deathly still otherwise, their legs no longer kicking absently.

“Look at that,” they intoned, supposedly staring at the stones but possibly not. “The kind of thing you don’t see every day. Amazing. Glorious. Outstanding.”

“You don’t even see days,” the interloper pointed out- and tolerated or not, welcomed or not, she was an interloper, uninvited into this space that didn’t belong to her.

“And I’m still unimpressed.”

“You’ll never find your inner peace if you don’t learn to find the magic in the small things.”

The desk-entity snorted.

“My inner peace?” they echoed, pushing at the rocks with one finger. It was a pile of unremarkable clumps of grey, with a little dust coating some of them. Fascinating. “My inner piece of what?”

“Deliberate ignorance,” the abomination sighed, shaking her head and clucking her tongue- the biggest one, at least. “Just what do you hope to accomplish by that?”

“It’s a mystery,” agreed the entity dryly. “Just like why you brought me an offering.”

“A gift,” came the correction, dismissively, not too fast as to look eager. “I wouldn’t dream of insulting you with such a paltry offering.”

As if she was worthy of worship, and not a lowly peasant. Was it mockery or flattery? They didn’t know each other well enough to guess.

“I don’t know,” they countered, lifting one of the rocks up to feign inspection, turning it this way and that. “Gravel is certainly something different.”

“It is,” agreed the abomination, suddenly serious. Her eyes narrowed, unknowingly mirroring the expression unseen behind those glasses. “Especially when it doesn’t come from Kirlian.”

There was a beat. It would have been silent, if not for the tumbling clothes in the dryer. Who owned the clothes? There was noone there. They were probably long dead, if they had walked in the door at all. Sometimes, just the intent was needed to set wheels in motion.

“Does this come from outside Kirlian?” asked the desk-entity, despite their efforts not to care.

“Of course not,” snorted the abomination, raising an eyebrow. “Is there anything that does?”

They rolled their eyes, letting the stone drop back down, dusting their hands on their clothes.

“Something, somewhere,” they agreed, dismissive. It sounded like a mantra, like the words were an echoed, learned response.

She raised her other eyebrow.

“Anyway,” the eldritch creature hummed, expression dropping back to neutrality. “I come to you, bearing gifts, bearing my company, and I think that makes you contractually obligated to do me a favor.”

And for a second, they almost believed her.

“Only if it’s food you bear.” Yeah, that was right, wasn’t it? Probably. The desk-entity paused, picked up a rock doubtfully,  and flicked their tongue out to taste it, just to be sure. Their expression soured. “It’s not,” they confirmed, in case there was going to be any doubt cast on the subject.

Which there would have been. The eldritch creature closed her mouth.

There was another pause, but it wasn’t silent this time, or intended to be. Her nose flared as she sighed, deeply- spiritually, if not literally.

“My sock is missing,” the abomination lamented, spreading her hands and stating her case. “It’s gone.”

“But there’s a sock right there. In your hand.” It was a helpful explanation.

“It’s not my sock.”

“Is that important?”

“It’s important to me.”

“Maybe you should raise it at the next Council Meeting,” deadpanned the laundry-maid. The light glinted off her glasses in a way that implied amusement, and was quite impressive to do on command. The eldritch abomination was, somehow, unimpressed.

“I’m not going to wear this, ever. It’s hideous.”

“You can always leave it and take another one.” They gestured towards an old cardboard box in the corner, that probably had been there all along, as easy to miss as it was with all those brightly coloured strands sprawling out of it. As the pair watched it, some of them moved.

Probably a trick of the light. A trick of the blaring, offensive, fluorescent light, showing every corner of the room except for that one.

The abomination grimaced, visibly. It was exaggerated.

She sighed. They waited.

“Next time I’m just going to smite you,” she lamented, throwing her arms- two of them, the two that were the most visible- straight into the air. The light flickered, and the desk-entity eyed it reprovingly. It stopped.

The abomination raised her eyebrow again, and said nothing.

“Next time, sure,” agreed the other. “Can’t wait.” They paused. “Will you bring coffee, while you’re at it?”

“Will you give me back my sock?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why not?”

“Minimum wage, minimum effort.”

“But what about the principle of the matter?”

The desk-entity sighed deeply, and tilted its head towards the ceiling.

This was apparently a very important question, as the eldritch creature stopped doing her laundry to stand up straight, frown, and look back over her shoulder at the laundry-maid before asking it.

The laundry-maid wasn’t sure why she even bothered showing up, or what she was washing. They were pretty sure it wasn’t clothes.

The laundry-maid, also, managed to keep a completely straight face as they answered–

“No.”

“That’s a lie.” Judgement, then.

“You have no eyes. It’s hilarious.”

“That I have no eyes?”

“No–” There had been an edge to her tone, and the laundry-maid had reacted instinctively, before catching themself in the rebuttal. This was not a creature that would give a warning she was annoyed, after all. They sighed. “Yes, clearly that is what I meant. Oh woe is me, you are too smart, and have seen through my lies.”

There were several moments of still, icy silence. Maybe they should have given her attitude when the laundromat wasn’t completely empty - as if that would have made a difference. When was the last time there had even been a customer? Maybe they only existed to serve this one lifeform and to bow down whenever she walked in the door. Really, it was no different from dealing with human customers.

“The father of lies is such a meaningless title,” the eldritch creature remarked, idly, apropros of nothing. “Humans are so much better at making up lies than any demon could be.”

“Met a lot of them, have you?”

“Dated one in highschool.”

Another one of those strange, heavy silences. There was something waiting, holdings its breath, and they were never sure if it was in the room or if it was the town itself. Was that too poetic? That was probably too poetic.

“Does Kirlian have a highschool?”

“Don’t you know?” Completely casual, completely even. “Didn’t you grow up here?”

The laundry-maid snorted, stretching out on top of the desk and turning their eyes to the ceiling, and the fluorescent lights there.

“What does that matter? I clearly didn’t go to school.”

“Your mortals and your strange sense of humors,” mused the eldritch creature, after a moment, and resumed placing her laundry into the washer. She slammed the door shut, and turned around. If they didn’t know better, they might have thought she was sulking.

Maybe she’d tip if they made small talk?

“Do you feel like you’re being watched?” they asked, trying vaguely to put some curiousity into their voice. It didn’t work, because they really didn’t care.

“Oh, constantly.” It was an idle, airy answer, accompanied by a vague motion of some vaguely defined limb. “There’s eyes all around, in every nook, and every cranny. They follow my every movement. They follow your every movement. There is no escape.”

“And the walls have ears, eh?”

“Naturally.”

The laundry-maid sighed. See, this was what it looked like when the eldritch creature was annoyed - dismissive answers, mocking under the sincerity, enough to carry the conversation but it was all pointless. The entire conversation was pointless.

And now they’d never know what it mattered, if it felt like eyes were watching them.

As Trilby sat there, feigning at reading yesterdays paper and keeping one eye on his phone, occupying one chair at a table near the door but not in a direct line of sight from either the door or the window, he mused over how coffee could just be... mediocre. It wasn't as offensive as instant, which was a low bar to climb over; it was somehow worse than the pot always brewing at the Ministry, and who even knew at any time how long it had been sitting there. The difference was, of course, this he had to pay for.

He would be reimbursed, but it didn't change the fact he had paid for it to start with. Mediocre.

It had been left deliberately, that much was clear - it had been a long time since anything had been allowed alive near the station, and he couldn't even remember the last time something had been allowed to grow. The trees were cold and devoid of leaves, striking against the moonlight but not much good for anything else; the ground was hard and sun-baked, unable to support life; the wind blew, carrying smells and sounds, but none of it was from anywhere you'd find on a map. Not even on the maps their children drew.

That's just the way it was, out there with the dead. He'd known what he was signing up for, and there wasn't much room for regret.

It was a good thing it hadn't been growing in the ground, he mused, staring at the flower with obligatory suspicion - even he, with his eternal hope for the future, wouldn't have trusted a sign pregnant with that much promise. This was much easier to swallow.

Which of course, anyone who knew anything would know.

So he took it back inside, closing the door (ignoring the knocking that had called him over, ignoring the whispers still slipping in through the cracks, ignoring the cajoling and the threats when he didn't respond) and dropped back into his chair. He slid the headphones on and kicked up his feet, uttering words and reassurances and curiousities into the microphone, not relinquishing his touch on his gift.

Things weren't allowed to grow, not around here. What a dangerous game they were playing, the two of them.

The night wore on. The knocking stilled, abruptly - he ignored that, and it began again, pounding with a fury. The window began to crack open, he closed it. The lights flickered, and he tapped the torch against the arm of the chair. The static crackled.

The songs played, too. The calls came in. Time passed, as it always did, even when it didn't feel like it was. Kirlian could avoid many things, if it just tried hard enough, and it did, but the hours still slipped away no matter what anyone did. He, personally, didn't try very hard. There were other wars to wage, and he preferred not to start ones he wouldn't win.

The sky lightened, eventually - it wasn't the end of the night, not just then, but the threat of it was creeping over the horizon. He began the next song and held the flower up for inspection - pristine as the moment he had picked it up. Wasn't that just lovely. What a lovely, lovely gift, this vibrant splash of colour. Not a speck of red in sight.

The air was still around him, but it wasn't cold. There was no reason for it to be. Anything that stepped through the doors was dead, whether or not they walked out with a heartbeat. It was just a matter of time, and the promise was heavy in the passing seconds.

He twirled the flower, idly, and it was the mere whisper of air against the petals that bruised it. He twirled it, the opposite direction, and it was the echo of movement that tore them from the stem - every twist, every turn, another floated down. He didn't stop. You couldn't stop, once you had started. He didn't look to see if they landed. Some things you just had to trust.

It was a nice fantasy, that something was going to survive, out there in the isolation, but he wasn't that naive. It was an interesting game, but that's all it was.

The music played, he hadn't asked for callers, and yet, there was a call. 

"I'm not sure I want to answer that, you know," the host said aloud, to the empty booth. But of course it was never really empty, he was never really alone, even when there was noone else there- not when he was here, in Kirlian. 

"That's not so odd. Strangers end up in Kirlian, now and again. You know that."

"I said I saw someone strange, not that I saw a stranger. You do know the difference, don't you?"

Thanks so much for all your likes and reblogs on my silly drafts lmao I really appreciate it!! Also please leave requests for things you like to see, otherwise I’ll only ever update when I do a prompt challenge eheh

To the anon:

I recommend finished pieces, because the asterisks are purely bc writtenkitten doesn’t allow formatting, and everyone knows that cute animals are the best motivation to write yeh yeh

And to missmamamoo:

She dropped her basket of cookies, is what she was trying to comprehend. "Nooo," she mumbled, jerking upright and looking around helplessly. She picked up a lone cookie from the car, stared at it, and *felt* her face droop.

This-- this *car*! What right did it *have* to be here?! In this parking lot! Where nothing ever *was*?? "Stupid!" Maya huffed, kicking out. "Dumb!" She kicked it again, this time in the wheel. "*Car*!" A third thump, but this time she missed and rammed her toes into the side door, which just hurt *her*, and she yelped again. So, of course, she kicked it *extra* hard for good measure, and wasn't at all surprised when a hubcap fell off, clanged against the concrete, and began to wobble away. She watched it for a while, feeling nothing in particular, and certainly not feeling any satisfaction at defeating her mortal enemy. After all, the cookies were still ruined. The hubcap came to a stop by a pair of shoes. The shoes were connected to a man. The man looked somewhere between horrified and alarmed.

"M-Maya?" Nick gave the scrap metal a wide berth, eyeing it like he thought it was going to leap up and bite him as he stepped around it, then turning to face her. "Is-- what--?" He just stared at her. Maya felt her face flush, but she wasn't about to let something like *that* get the better of her, nosirree! "This piece of junk!" she complained, kicking it again-- the antenna fell off, proving that it *was* just held together with rust and good wishes. Nick cringed. "It's in the *way*!" "The way of *what*?" he dared to ask, and she puffed out her cheeks indignantly. Very slowly, she lifted her hand and pointed to the gap in the fence-- not a big gap, but big enough for a determined spirit medium to squeeze through, and then to jump over the wall, and sprint across the parking lot to save herself-- like-- *two bucks* on a bus fee to go around the block. And two bucks was nothing to sneeze at, if you were asking *her*, and clearly if you were asking Nick, too, because his expression cleared. "Oh," he said, very neutrally. "I *see*." "Of *course* you see!" Maya huffed. "You'd have to be *blind* not to see whoever parked this junk here is out to *get* me!" This time when she kicked the door, she left a visible dent, and Nick made a sound of protest. "Maya--" "Jerk!" she insisted. "--*please* stop hitting my car!" Maya froze. She lowered her leg. She turned. 

It hadn't *looked* like that much of a head start, but by the time Maya reached the bottom of the stairs, her cousin had almost rounded the corner. She paused, looking back and forward, then grit her jaw and steeled herself for the chase ahead. How hard could it *be*, after all? Pearly was sure to get tired before she got herself into trouble. She could *totally* handle this. No need at all to call Nick! === Pearly had stopped running as soon as she turned the corner, but not because she was tired, or because her flash of anger-- *How *could* you, Mr Nick!*-- had abated. No, she had stopped running because she had apparently run *into* someone. Edgeworth stared down at the little spawn at his feet with an expression that wasn't quite irritation and wasn't quite confusion, but could easily go in either direction. Maya felt her stomach drop. "Pearly! There you are!" She rushed forward, panting, dropping down beside the sulking child who didn't so much as glance at her, still glaring up at the lawyer. Maya stared at her, then frowned up, too. "I'm *so* sorry, Edgeworth." His gaze flicked from her, to Pearl, back to her. He held his briefcase in one hand, and car keys in the other. Very pointedly, he looked to their right, where said car was parked. It shone, even in the rain. It sparkled. It *glimmered*. It danced across her line of sight like a delicate ballet dancer, flawless and perfect and beautiful. ...Except for that one muddy smear, right there on the drivers door. It was pretty low down, about knee height, which was a pretty... strange place... for a splash...? In fact, that splash looked an *awful* lot like sort of a... shoe shape? And her little cousin *had* just run through a puddle... Maya's eyes widened, and her head whipped around. "*Pearly*--" Pearl snapped her head to the side and glared at *her*, and Maya balked. Above them, Edgeworth seemed to have got himself under control, and slipped his keys into his pocket to offer that hand to Maya. Warily, she accepted it, but he released her as soon as she was standing-- no funny business, no silent threat, not even any visible irritation anymore. That didn't fool her though-- she'd seem him in court, and she *knew* he was just as good at hiding his emotions as... well, he was *better* at it than Nick was, to say the least. "Edgeworth--" Maya began, desperate to get the first word in, but a flash of a grin cut her off. It was gone as soon as it was there, and she would have thought it was her imagination if she didn't know better. "Miss Fey," he greeted, pleasantly. "Lovely day for a stroll, isn't it?" Was he... making *fun* of her? Automatically she reached out, placing one hand on Pearl's shoulder just in case she got the idea to run away again-- not that she seemed to be *planning* to, but she wasn't sure she'd have the energy to chase her like that again. "I'm sorry." Yes, that seemed like a safe approach to take to this conversation. "This is Pearl , my cousin. She ran off." Edgeworth digested this for a few moments, and she was *positive* he was laughing at her now. "I can see the resemblance," he agreed, turning his gaze lower. Pearl glared back, defiantly, and he glanced back to Maya. "She declined to introduce herself," he added. Maya's stomach did that little flop again. She was only gone for a *minute*, how could she get in so much trouble?! "I--" she tried, and the words stopped coming out. Which was fair, of course-- even though her *brain* didn't realise she was about to offer compensation for the terrible, terrible car damage, her purse certainly did, and was taking the appropriate steps to stop her mistake. Maybe if she didn't *say* anything, neither would he? That didn't sound likely. She frowned, and Edgeworth raised his brows. "Miss Fey," he stated, mildly. "Did you know I came out and find your cousin... *attacking* my car? Well *that* didn't work out quite how she planned. "It wasn't *my* fault!" Pearl protested, fuming. "It hit me first! It just-- it just jumped *out* at me!" Edgeworth glanced to Maya again, raising his brows in a-- *See?* kind of motion. She frowned slightly over his left shoulder, considering this. "Miss Fey?" he prompted, and she glanced back at him. Crap. What was she even meant to *say*? "It was Nick's fault!" she blurted, under his gaze. "He upset her!" The sound Pearl made at *that* name certainly backed her claim up, and Edgeworth arched his brows again-- but she thought that had to be for her benefit more than any kind of real surprise, because who *else* would have been insensitive enough to irritate a wee child? "I see," he uttered, and glanced at his wrist. There was no watch there. "I'm afraid we'll have to cut this short," he told her. "I'm late for a meeting." Maya's insides made a valiant attempt to flop onto her outsides when he shot her another smirk, silently delighting in her silent agony, and she stepped away from the car, tugging Pearl with her. He paused as he turned the key in the door, and gave them both another look. "I'll send you the bill," Edgeworth promised. "I'm sure it won't be *too* much, for such a small amount of damage." Somehow she just wasn't all that reassured, but now didn't seem the time to argue about it. Maya wasn't really sure she could *win* that debate, come to think of it. 

"I'm *never* going to remember all this," Mia mutters, unaware of her audience, and she sounds so distraught that he considers-- however briefly-- that maybe now *isn't* the best time to interrupt. But then he realizes he wasn't actually planning to *until* he saw how down she was, so that has to say something, right? He's not sure what, but there's no time to consider that. There are things afoot and if he doesn't take care of his little rival, who will? "Ahhh." Armando pushes the door open proper and swaggers in, his ever-present coffee mug lifting in a lazy greeting. "*Here* you are." Mia starts, jumping in her seat and twisting to see who was interrupting-- and if he didn't know better, he'd think there was a twinge of irritation in her expression when her gaze lands on him. There's definitely a twist of her lips that implies an impending frown. "Where *else* would I be?" she demands, leaning back from the desk. Her sleeves are pushed up her wrists, and her eyes are turning bloodshot. He feels a vague sense of sympathy for her. Well, *imagined* sympathy. He could never imagine being in a state to look *that* sloppy. "Home?" he suggests, with some amusement, coming to a stop and leaning against her filing cabinet. With a cock of his head, he adds-- "On a date, maybe?" Mia *does* frown then, which is good. At least she hasn't lost her sense of humour. "Did you *want* something?" She keeps her voice even, crossing her arms *and* her legs, raising her brows pointedly-- golly, but she sure does mean business. Armando doesn't mind. He grins a bit, sips, and leaves her in suspense. Mia frowns, cutting her gaze past him to the hallway-- her brows crease further, and-- Ahhh, yes. There it is. The moment when she sees just how *dark* it is out there, how silent. No doubt she would have noticed through the window, if the blinds hadn't been drawn. The office has been practically deserted for quite a while now, and not a single one of the people trickling out had thought to duck their heads in and check on the new girl. "What *time* is it?" she mutters, more to herself than him, and spins back around to her desk. She shuffles papers side to side, searching for the clock, and cringes as a pile of folders slides towards the edge. She grabs for them, predictably, but that only makes them scatter further to the winds. It's all very amusing, to her unwanted visitor-- and even more so, the fact she makes when she *does* find the clock. "What are *you* still doing here?" she shoots back over her shoulder, defensive now. Armando grins, and takes another sip. "Worried about your case?" he teases, and she doesn't bother trying to deny it, though she *does* frown harder at his attitude. "Some of us actually take this *seriously*," she informs him archly, shuffling papers around to imply she's still busy and hoping he gets the hint-- he doesn't, of course, he continues to linger, and she lets out a sigh when she realises he's not going anywhere. "What do you *want*?" she asks again, her frustration starting to show through. That's a thing she's going to have to work on, he muses absently. "You're not going to be any use to your client if you're falling asleep in court." Though he keeps the grin his tone turns more serious, and he can see her mentally lurch to try and keep up. "You should go home and get some sleep." Mia hesitates. She frowns, opens her mouth, closes it again-- and shakes her head. "Not yet," she argues, turning away. Her meaning is clear, when you're as perceptive as he is-- *I'm not *ready* yet.* Armando considers frowning, and decides against it. He eyes his almost empty mug, and pushes off the cabinet-- now, see *here* was an issue that needed immediate attention. "You aren't going to get any *more* prepared reading these," he tells her, gesturing around the room-- at the books and the stacked files and the endless *paperwork*. "Dead words by dead men on dead cases-- that's all it is. They can't teach you what court is *like*-- that's what you have to *live*." "These are about the *current* case," she informs him sharply, ignoring the rest of his frankly *inspiring* speech, and indicating the stack on the floor. He shrugs lazily. "Speaking from *experience*," he adds pointedly, and flicks his grin up a notch. Her expression shifts. "Are you *sure* you don't want a ride home?" There's something approaching genuine concern there, in that question, and Mia gives him a long look as she tries to figure out his angle. Her gaze flicks to the stack, and hardens. She spins around to face the desk again and pulls the chair in, opening the top file. "Thank-you for the offer," she utters, in clear dismissal. "But I think I can find my *own* way home." He grins. "Good luck," he tells her, unoffended, and struts out again. She doesn't acknowledge his exist in the least. ==== She's still over the desk when he heads home himself, an hour later-- he peeks in through the gap and she's hunched over, reading her files. He watches for a few seconds, thinking she might have actually fallen asleep this time. Ah-- she *has*. That's adorable. 

He pushes the door open and wanders inside-- he doesn't *creep*, because he's not trying to be *weird* about it or anything, but he keeps his footsteps light. Her cheek is pressed against the files and one wrong move is going to send everything sliding off onto the floor to join the pile already there-- she's going to wake up with one hell of a crick in her neck, if nothing else, even if she manages to get through the night. But that's all part of the experience of being a lawyer, right? He'd be a real jerk to deny her *that*. 

Well, it *could*, but there's plenty of fully grown adults who can be put to work first, and that seems less cruel. 

Which was why, as his three *loyal* and *loving* companions huddled amongst themselves, tending their wounds and rationing their rations, he sat in the corner, weeping softly over a world that might have been-- a world where his white suit *didn't* attract literally every kind of muck they fucking walked within a ten mile radius of. Metaphorically speaking, obviously-- he wasn't actually going to *cry*. But he had been rubbing at this patch of-- christ, what *was* it? Swamp water? Brains? *Mud*? Shit, anything but fucking mud-- for a while, and making no progress. At first he'd thought it was smearing more, but despite not having caked into the thread, it wasn't responding to his attacks at all. He looked up, around, silently pleading for the gods to send help-- not that anyone could have figured that out, looking at his ruggedly stoic expression. No help was forthcoming, but he *did* spy someone broken off from the group, rummaging around in a bag. Ahhh, Ro. Ro would help. He was charming, and Ro was a *woman*. This could work, Nick thought, sidling over towards her-- he pretended not to notice the other two grinning at each other and openly watching, and even so, he only got a few steps before Ro looked over her shoulder at him. He slid from sidling into strutting without missing a beat, drawing ever closer. The bag in front of her also drew closer-- but to *her*. Was she hiding something? Goddamn. "Ro," he drawled, leaning on his rifle as he eyed her. "Done something different with your hair?" She stared at him, and shot a glance at their companions-- who, it had to be noted, had no useful advice-- before looking back to Nick. "Whaddya want?" she asked warily, pulling the bag closer to her chest. "I'm offended," Nick frowned. "Can't I just make small talk?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Seriously," the woman insisted. "Spit it out." If I could just spit it *out*, Nick thought, I wouldn't be here *doing* this. In fact, I can't be sure of that because who would spit on a three thousand fucking dollar *suit*, but I'm pretty positive it would only make the situation worse. "I--" He broke off, staring intently at her bag. "What do you *have* in there?" "Nothing," she answered quickly, clutching it with both hands and taking half a step back. He caught a glimpse of light refracting off glass. Glass? Bottle? It was either booze or stain remover, he decided. "Well *I'm* convinced," he told her dryly, taking a step forward and making a little motion with his hand. "Come on, hand it over." "Piss off," she snorted, snaking her head and taking another step back. "I'm not one of your *floozies* you can just order around, buddy." Nick bit his tongue on that one, but needless to say, he was *well* aware of that fact. "You'll feel better if you just admit it," he assured her, advancing. She kept backing up until her back hit the wall, and then he paused, not wanting to spook her-- she wasn't fooled for a second and clutched the bag. "Whatever it is, we're not going to *judge* you for it." Ro's expression changed. Shit. Wrong thing to say. "Do you *promise*?" Ro whispered, fluttering her eyelashes, and Nick recoiled-- she took the opportunity and bolted, trying to flee past him, and he would have worked if he was a complete idiot. All he had to do was grab at her as she flew past, catching her shirt and pulling her up short. Ro made a startled noise and stumbled, and *then* all he had to do was reach out and snatch it. She never really stood a chance. The bag was ripped from her grip, and it was all over. "Oh no," Ro intoned, finding her balance. "Help, help." Nick shot her an unimpressed look-- her damsel act *really* needed some work, and he was a bit too proud to be okay being used as *practice*. He held the handle in one hand and fished around inside with the other, ignoring practically everything in his quest for the elusive glass bottle. There wasn't a lot to ignore, and when he pulled his hand out, it only took a short glance before he drew in breath with a gasp. Not thinking-- acting on instinct-- Nick flung the jar away, trying to backpedal at the same time. The same wall that had stopped Ro now stopped him, and it was Ro herself who got herself together. With a curse she lunged, hands outstretched, and only *just* managed to catch the jar. "Nice move," she informed him, unable to be any more sarcastic, and Nick scowled. The jar of boomer bile seemed awfully small in his hands, in that moment-- but it wasn't the *size* that worried him so much as the *effect* it would have.

There was no *way* he was going to get that out of his suit. "*I'm* not the one carrying around a jar of puke!" he accused. "What the *hell*?" "It'll come in handy," she declared, not missing a beat, and tossed it from hand to hand. Nick's eyes darted bck and forth, tracking it and this didn't escape her attention. Her tossing slowed, and when Nick glance at her warily, she grinned wide. "Think fast," she ordered, and he yelped as the jar came sailing for him-- except it didn't, she never released it as her wrist twitched, and he wasn't prepared for the fact it was such a *white* thing to do. He also wasn't prepared for the fact that the jar then went sailing out of her *other* hand. It shattered at his feet, and Nick leapt back snarling. Even Ro gasped and backpedalled, for all the good it would do.