truth hurts.

FaBi was unimpressed.  Even after being reassured the change would likely only be temporary, she was fuming mad that she’d been forced into public at all.  If it weren’t for the potential loss of the income that paid for both her schooling and her lifestyle, she would have hidden away in her apartment and drank the days away until she was back to her fabulous self.  Once all this fuckery was over and done with, she made a note to renegotiate her deal with the owner.  The way she saw it, forced humiliation deserved financial compensation.  Otherwise she’d take her abilities elsewhere. So she wasn’t in the best of moods already.

Then a fucking pigeon decided to land on her head.

“You ain’t getting dick until you get off of my bald fucking head,” she growled, one lumbering swipe attempted to get the damn talking bird off of her.  Fucking Pansaw.  This shit never happened in Idaho.  It was almost enough to make her miss home.  Almost.  “I already look hideous, am being forced to be in public looking like this.  I’m not adding bird shit on top of that list of ‘shit that’s fucked up’ and ‘why I’m fucking pissed.’“

“Fair enough,” Noah agreed, and then let out an involuntary, disgruntled coo as he clumsily dodged her swipe, wings flapping to keep himself upright. In the commotion of his flight, a single feather landed on her so called bald fucking head, which he thought was what she deserved, really, for whacking at him.

@noah-wright​

As a rule, Guillermo didn’t sleep naked. Even alone, which he invariably was, and so waking up that way this morning was more than a little disconcerting. His consciousness rolled in slowly, taking in the nightlight on the opposite wall before it did the younger man on the other side of his bed. And the curls. Dark curls, thick and familiar falling into a face he most definitely didn’t remember inviting into his bed. Oh, he’d thought about those curls and the man they belonged to, but only thought and only hesitantly like someone dipping their toes into a swimming pool they weren’t certain about. Slowly, carefully, he shifted further to the edge of the bed in search of his phone. That motion alone was enough to rouse Noah, who was looking up at him with the sort of miffed expression Guillermo would have ascribed to a cat being spritzed with a hose. Words stumbled on their way to his tongue, and he sat up in bed far more quickly than he found anything to say that made the slightest sense. “I thought you said that you were working last night. That’s why we were gonna go over the new info I got out of that source tomorrow.” He said warily, casting a glance around for his prosthetic legs in case he needed to get them on in the very near future. “I also don’t remember uh…this. Whatever this is. At all. Or…” The date on his alarm clock made his eyebrows shoot up, and he nearly rolled out of bed in his haste to grab it so he could bring it close enough to be sure he was seeing what he thought that he was seeing. “Noé, does this say 2051 to you too? This is fucking nuts, this is…I need to figure this out.”

Noah did not actually remember going to bed. Last he remembered, he’d been crawling out the window of a rich woman’s bedroom with a bag full of pilfered jewels, and sure, he’d been on his way home, where he probably would have gone to bed, but he didn’t remember making it there. Granted, it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been so tired he fell into bed with little memory of getting there, but he didn’t remember his bed being this comfortable--hell, the whole length of him was stretched out, flat on his stomach, and there wasn’t a single spring stabbing him, and the pillow his face was half mashed into smelled distinctly of laundry detergent, which was weird.

Weirder still was the feeling of movement from the other side of the mattress, when Noah certainly didn’t remember taking anyone home. Immediately, Noah pushed himself up onto his side, squinted at the man across from him for half a second before his eyes widened.

He definitely did not remember this.

Still, for a moment Noah almost smiled, eyebrows raising as Ortega spoke. “I’d be hurt, ‘cept I don’t remember either,” he mused. “Huh. Shit. Did we go for a drink or somethin’?” It didn’t seem likely, but it was the only possibility Noah saw, and though he’d have preferred to remember getting the CARMA agent into bed, Lachlan still owed him money. He rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, said, “You’ve got a big bed. I like the night light,” and was fully prepared to go back to sleep and figure this out later, because he had been working, and he was tired, but then--

“What does that mean, 2051?” he asked, opening his eyes again and lifting his head to look at Guillermo with an expression that was almost annoyed. He could be sleeping right now, was the thing, in a very comfortable bed, so at the moment he didn’t much care how he’d got there and he was going to be very offended if Guillermo kicked him out without at least another hour to enjoy it. It was only when he sat up enough to note the very genuine way that the agent was studying his alarm clock that Noah decided the question had been sincere, rolled onto his side and placed a gentle hand on Guillermo’s arm to alert him of his presence as he leaned over to look at the clock--close, because he wasn’t wearing glasses, obviously, but apparently they’d been close tonight already.

“2051,” Noah repeated, and then rolled away with a frown to the other side of the bed, looking for--he didn’t know what, his discarded pants to find his phone, maybe, but instead his phone was right there--on the nearest end table, plugged in and charging. Which again, was weird, but if anyone Noah knew seemed like the type to have an emergency charger for guests, he supposed it was Ortega. A moment of fiddling and squinting--was his phone less scratched than it had been last night?--and then Noah said, “Says it here, too. Fuck does that mean, 2051?” A pause to yawn, rake a hand through his hair, and then he looked at Guillermo, still squinting sleepily, and said, “You work for the government. You guys break the internet or somethin’? This some kinda Y2K thing?”

BACK TO THE FUTURE  → Noah Wright

Age: 37 Status: Alive, Metahuman Affiliation: Rebel Army

Five years down the line, Noah’s life doesn’t look much like it did in 2046. Though he kept as far from the Rebels as possible the first time around, preferring to keep his head down and let the war play itself out, this time the threat of losing his powers, combined with the knowledge of how disappointed Leigh would be if he made the same choice again, has driven him to seek out the Rebel Army and offer his services.

The abilities that allowed him to so easily scheme and steal now allow Noah to collect intel for the Rebels and CARMA, a position he never thought he’d find himself in.

Speaking of CARMA and positions he never thought he’d find himself in, the future finds Noah Wright in a relationship with a CARMA agent--though please don’t call Guillermo Ortega his boyfriend to his face, at least not in English.

Though he still has his little apartment in Lompico, it’s now used almost exclusively for storage--mostly for Noah’s new side hustle, a small tailoring business, which recently became his main hustle when he became too overwhelmed with tailoring, thieving, and working with the rebels, and reluctantly gave up the thieving.

Razzing Noah was one of the only sports that Lachlan had ever truly enjoyed, though bounty hunting took first place. “You look like a man who needs a fuckin’ date to me. That’s what I’m saying to you. And this guy isn’t gonna just fuck you and run, I promise you that. I’ve heard shit through the grapevine at CARMA.” He said, grinning widely at the way that Noah’s expression shifted at just one measly word. The grapevine was one gossipy secretary, but who she was far more useful than expected. Entertaining too, even though she kept trying to draw him into taking her out to dinner. Another drink? He could do another drink, if only to placate his now ruffled friend and plant a few more truths in the conversation like so many seeds. 

A gesture at the bartender sent another drink Noah’s way and he waited for Noah to get his fidgety hands on it before continuing. “He’s what, my age? My age, a tight ass, and has that perpetual resting bitch face from what I’ve seen. You aren’t going to get into his pants like you’ve done mine and many others. But fine, arsehole.” Lachlan said, flicking a paper umbrella at the younger man. “Five hundred if you do get him to take you to bed. A thousand if you manage a date, and don’t try to bullshit me either.” He paused, thoughtful, then nodded at Noah again. “You ever give thought to that shit we were talking about last night? The adoption shit? I mean, you won’t let me blow up your arsehole father with my powers, but I wouldn’t…I mean I wouldn’t mind getting his name off your birth certificate, swapping mine if it makes you feel better.”

Noah only looked more affronted when Lachlan said he looked like he needed a date, which was saying something, given the offended grimace he’d already been wearing. The fresh drink appeased him somewhat, nervous hands spinning the glass around briefly before he took a sip. He wrinkled his nose as Lachlan pressed on, shook his head. Nimble fingers picked up the little umbrella Lachlan flicked at him, rolled the stem of it between his thumb and forefinger and offered, “I think you’re older, actually,” for no other reason than to get on Lachlan’s nerves. But the amended bet was better, and hell, for a clean thousand a date might even be worth it, so he said, “Deal,” and then, grinning, “Me? Bullshit you? Sugar, I’m a fuckin’ paragon of honesty. Yeah, you like that? Paragon? That’s some fuckin’ SAT shit, hold the applause.”

One eyebrow arched up at the change of subject, Noah considering Lachlan with a carefully blank expression for a moment before he shrugged one shoulder. “This because I used the word ‘paragon’ just now?” he asked, and tucked the paper umbrella he was still holding into his hair, took a moment to duck his head and use a particularly shiny napkin dispenser to check his reflection, adjust it slightly. In truth, yes, he had thought about that. It was a tempting offer. To be free of even part of Winston Wright’s name would be a blessing, but Noah was not nearly drunk enough to say ‘yes’ right now. That would be too much vulnerability, too close to asking for a favor, not to mention the fact he’d be tying himself to someone, legally, officially, and that, well--that was terrifying. Satisfied that the umbrella was tucked securely into his curls, Noah lifted his head again, took a long gulp of his drink. “I mean, I don’t blame you for wanting such a god damned fuckin’ genius to be legally your kid, bragging rights and all, but uh--ask me again after a couple more drinks. Also, when did I say you couldn’t blow the fucker up? Well--okay, maybe not like, actually him, cause what if I need some kind of transplant one day, and he’s dead, so I can’t kidnap him and steal his organs. But like, his house. His mailbox? Actually, I don’t know where he lives. But I know his name. And what he looks like. Picture me, but older, and like--uptight.”

Well, he tried. Guillermo did at least, but Noah seemed to skid right past the request with practiced ease, as if ogling the older man’s ass and joking about whether or not he was being propositioned was enough to grease his way. Probably got away with a lot with a smile like that too. A handsome face, all that jazz, but despite the flush that rose to his cheeks at the very idea that he would proposition Noah, a roll of his eyes came right afterwards. “The only places open at this hour serve shit on a plate, so no. I have food at home better than you’d get out there anyway.” He opened the car door for Noah, then gestured for him to get in. “Move it, Birthday Boy. If you don’t steal anything in my apartment, I’ll send you home with extra food too.” If he had learned anything about Noah over these past several months, the man was like a human garbage pit when it came to food. Guillermo had grown up poor enough to understand that impetus to hoard food, he had done the same whenever offered extra food at birthday parties or at school. Pain in the ass though he was, Noah Wright…well, he cared what happened to him. Liked him, he supposed.

Had to if he was willing to let him into his apartment, Guillermo reflected while he was driving home. Who had been there since he came to CARMA? The plumber once, Manny a few times, and Ellie the most of all, but that was about it. Which was why he went silent on the drive over, let Noah burble and be his frenetic self all the way up to his apartment. Guillermo opened the front door, then half shoved Noah inside before any of his coworkers could see. It wasn’t the fraternizing with a criminal part that bothered him, not really. But if one of them with a gossipy bent saw tight assed Agent Ortega with someone in the wee hours of the morning he’d have rumors swirling by lunch. “By the way, I think you’ve got it backwards. Someone who looks like you wouldn’t be propositioning middle aged Mexican dads who look like me. I mean, in my opinion.” Guillermo said as he led Noah to the kitchen, then immediately regretted it. This was precisely why he didn’t stay up this late, it was roughly on par with how a couple of glasses of sangria loosened his tongue. With that in mind, he turned his attention to the fridge and looked into its depths as if searching for the meaning of life. “No shellfish, but do you eat Mexican food? Like real Mexican food? I can make white boy tamales, but I thought I’d check. I’m just boring enough to meal prep, so I have stuff ready.”

If the request had been framed more seriously--more ‘you’re making me uncomfortable’ and less ‘try not to be so you’--Noah might have tried harder to honor it. It was not his intention to make Ortega uncomfortable--he was, much to Noah’s annoyance, a decent man, if a very serious one, and while Noah considered terrorizing law enforcement an honorable and extremely entertaining pastime, that was not what he was doing here.

The truth was that the flirtation was a protection. The nature of the work they’d been doing together meant that Ortega had seen Noah vulnerable more than he liked. Noah did not know what to do with that, where to put it--it was easiest to distract from it with comments about the man’s ass which was, for the record, every bit as excellent as Noah said.

“I would never steal from you, darlin’,” Noah said solemnly as he got into the car, though he had a feeling they both knew that was a lie. Bribery was as good a way as any to convince him to keep his sticky fingers to himself though, so Ortega’s possessions would be safe this time. 

Noah chattered as they drove, pointing out a spot where he’d slept sometimes when he and Leigh first came to Pansaw, a bar where he swore he’d sung karaoke with a movie star, only he couldn’t remember her name. It was hard to say which of these stories were true, and this, too, was a protection. 

He’d been to CARMA housing before, to visit Rowan, though that felt different than being escorted in by Agent Ortega, with his careful walk and his straight, upright shoulders. Noah felt a little like he was being escorted to the principal’s office, and maybe that was why he let out a little indignant squawk at being rushed into the apartment, said, “Pushy,” over his shoulder as he dusted himself off and immediately set to quietly looking around, cataloguing the apartment--though he was quickly distracted when Guillermo spoke.

“Someone who looks like me, huh?” he said, standing a little straighter and flipping loose curls out of his eyes as he followed Ortega into the kitchen. “What do I look like, in your opinion, Agent Ortega?” he asked, and went up on his toes to peer over Ortega’s shoulder into the fridge, slipped around him and began cheerfully rifling through his cabinets in search of glasses. 

“Of course you meal prep,” he said a moment later, when he’d found a glass, filled it from the sink, and made himself comfortable on Ortega’s kitchen counter to drink it, and if he sounded just a little bit charmed by it, well, that was his business. “I don’t mind spicy, if that’s what you’re askin’. Not a big fan of liver, tried tongue one time and didn’t like that, and I fuckin’ hate creamed corn unless it’s in pancakes. Other than that, and the shellfish, I ain’t picky. No white boy tamales necessary. Do you have ice? For the water.” 

@noah-wright​

It would reflect badly on his insistence that Noah be allowed to assist in Leigh’s murder investigation, that was what he told himself. Not any affection or other sundry feelings towards the other man, that wasn’t what dragged him out of bed at 3am and over to a police station on the other side of Pansaw to save his ass. Just business. Expensive business though, with the favors he had to call in and the bullshitting he had to pull to get Noah released and the charges dropped. Few others would merit this kind of effort, even fewer had the dubious joy of seeing him in shorts and a workout shirt, and that alone had made Noah stare at him the entire time. Two quips about his appearance whizzed past his head without a reaction, but by the time they exited the station he was about fed up with that. “Before you open your mouth again to make a quip about my ass or my arms, I think you might want to consider y’know, a thank you. I know you’re probably allergic to that kind of thing, but…” He said, his annoyed expression softening once he saw that it was the prosthetics Noah was looking at, not anything unsavory. They hadn’t had that discussion, but it Guillermo’s defense, it wasn’t anyone’s business. “If I stick around and tell you that story, we’ll get arrested for loitering. Now listen, if we’re going to make it look like you’re actually a CARMA asset, I should probably take you home with me for a bit. Got some files I haven’t shown you yet anyway, but don’t…don’t be all you about it. You know damned well what I mean.”

Noah did not like asking for help. It was the sort of thing he tried to avoid whenever possible. Somebody helped you, and then you owed them, or worse, you started to rely on them, and that, in his experience, was a death sentence. Noah was proud and he was stubborn and generally speaking, he was good at getting him out of any trouble that he got himself into. 

Every once in a while though, even he had no choice but to suck it up. 

In truth, calling Agent Ortega had had more to do with it being his birthday than anything else. Being trapped behind bars made Noah’s skin crawl, and he was all too aware that his powers couldn’t get him out of the cell itself, but eventually they would have to take him out, and as long as it was before they did anything that might land him on CARMA’s registry, it wouldn’t be overly hard to slip away once they did. The problem was he didn’t know how long that would take and--well, like he’d said. It was his birthday. He didn’t want to spend it in a cell just because he’d made one mistake with a guard who was resistant to psychics. He wanted to spend it the traditional way--eating an entire cake in his apartment and drunk dialing Rowan until she let him come over.

In any case, he hadn’t even been sure Ortega would come, and his arrival was almost as much of a surprise to Noah as his outfit, and the prosthetics that Noah had not yet known about, though they did explain the way that the man sometimes moved with such care. Frankly, he thought his behavior had been excellent, given the circumstances--Ortega was wearing a tank top, and he was, what, supposed to not acknowledge that?--but apparently Ortega did not agree.

“I’m allergic to shellfish, sugar, not ‘thank you’s,” Noah said primly, though he did not offer one yet, dragging his gaze up from where he’d been admiring Ortega’s ass in those shorts just in time to catch the other man’s eyes. It took Noah half a second to understand the next sentence--Ortega thought he’d been looking at the legs, not his ass, apparently, and Noah did not bother correcting him just yet. He’d already said not to make another crack about his ass, after all, and it wasn’t too late for him to march Noah back inside and tell the cops he’d made a mistake. 

Noah’s eyebrows shot up at the offer to take him home, the request that he not be himself about it doing nothing to stop him from smirking. “Do I? I can’t imagine what you mean, Agent Ortega. Upstanding fella like you, you certainly wouldn’t be propositioning little ol’ me. You got anything to eat at home? Cause if you don’t, I wanna stop somewhere. Fuckin’ starving. I’m burnin’ a lot of calories with the effort it’s takin’ not to comment on your ass, baby.”

Basic Information

Full Name: Noah Winston Wright Age: 31 Date of Birth: December 19, 2013 Hometown: Louisville, Kentucky Current Location: Pansaw, California Pronouns: He/Him/His Orientation: Bisexual Occupation: Thief Living Arrangements: A small two-bedroom walk up in Lompico Religion: Lapsed Catholic Language(s) Spoken: English, some very poor Spanish Accent: Southern

@noah-wright​

“See, that’s a lot of bitching on your part but it’s detailed bitching. You’re studying this bastard and I don’t think it’s just so you can try to get in his pants.” Lachlan said, swirling his glass of scotch and wriggling his eyebrows at his dear, feckless friend Noah. He was impressed that Noah had wiggled his way into the CARMA investigation into his sister’s murder, but not unduly. It was more interesting that he seemed a tad fixated on the agent in charge, who seemed like his polar opposite in most respects. Every great once and a while he did some liaising with CARMA, so he had a vague idea of who this Agent Ortega was and that was enough to know Noah was more likely to get the Pope in bed with him than this man. “I’ll agree he’s odd though. Hates cops, but he’s basically what? A Meta detective with a stick up his arse? I think you’re out of luck here though, mate. Bet you five hundred you won’t be able to get him to go on a date with you. Cash, of course.”

Noah made a slightly offended noise at the suggestion that he was interested in more than just bedding the current subject of his bitching. The hand he was holding his own glass with lifted to point a finger at Lachlan, a bit of the glass’s contents splashing onto his hand with the force of the gesture. “Watch it,” he scolded, but he was quickly distracted when Lachlan spoke again. “Hot cop, hates cops,” he said, nodding along with Lachlan’s assessment--and he might have jumped at that bet, except that Lachlan finished it with the word ‘date’, which--

“Lachlan,” Noah said, tossing back the last of his glass and leaning forward to squint at his friend, a little bit drunk and as blind as ever without the glasses he refused to wear outside of his apartment. “Do I look like a man who’s ever been on a fuckin’ date to you?” His nose wrinkled up in distaste at the thought and he flapped a hand to dismiss it, shook his head. “You’re readin’ into things, is what you’re doin’, and it ain’t polite. I’m not studying the man for anything except to get in his pants and stay on his good side so he don’t report me to CARMA. You change the terms though and I’ll take that bet. You gotta buy me another drink though, for havin the--the fuckin audacity to suggest I’d go on a date. Christ. What would that even look like?”

Atticus just stood there, brows raised in an impatient anticipation.  C’mon, he couldn’t have looked that different, he thought.  He affirmed Noah’s suspicions with an eyeroll and nod.  “Duh!” he exclaimed, thinking it was the most obvious thing in the world.  His clothes were a little too big, still hanging off bony shoulders, but his height seemed to have shrunk - which he didn’t appreciate.  Jeans fell below his feet and shirt sleeves ran down to his fingertips.  He folded his arms over his chest, adjusting now for the extra-ness there, and plopped down on a stool beside his friend.  “Well, I don’t have any ID on me, so sneak it,” he said, running hands over his face.  “Alright, well, big tits on you makes a whole lot more sense than me, I mean, look at me.  Or, no, remember what I used to look like, I guess.”

“Don’t ‘duh’ me,” Noah said, reaching out to give one of Atticus’s curls a playful tug to go along with the admonishment. “Usually you’re a leggy little goblin, and now suddenly you’re a pretty girl, gotta give a fella a second to put the pieces together. Not to say that you ain’t pretty normally, before you start on that, too.” He paused, leaning forward to wave a hand at the bartender to grab their attention. “‘Nother of these,” he said, holding up his own glass, and then, “And whatever my friend here wants.” The bartender looked at Atticus, started to open his mouth, but Noah cut him off, gave him a friendly smile as he said, “You’ve already seen her ID. She’s twenty-one.” 

His powers made the words convincing--the bartender blinked once and then smiled, said, “Right, sorry,” as if it had simply slipped his mind. The effect wouldn’t last forever, but certainly the rest of the night, and Noah waved a hand at Atticus, said, “Whatever you want, sugar, on me,” and then, a moment later, when Atticus had ordered and the bartender was no longer paying attention, “Sneak it. Honestly. Forget who you’re with, baby.”

@noah-wright​

He had rivals, of course. Rival thieves that were nearly as good as him, that is, and Leo had hoped that most of them had gotten locked up or killed in the years he had been out of commission. That was clearly expecting too much, he reflected as he watched the skinny American slide his way down the opposite end of the hallway that Leo himself was in. Of course they were working the same target. “Hey! Bastardo riccio! Could you not have had the decency to die while I was gone?” Leo said in a harsh whisper to the other thief once they were close enough to hear one another. He knew the targets weren’t home, and thankfully they were cheaper than they were suspicious. A single guard and a housekeeper who didn’t live on site, that was all he had contended with earlier. He could knock this bastard out, if necessary, but in the moment itself he wanted to know just why they were stepping on the same path. How, too. So he could avoid it in the future. Leo made an obscene gesture at Noah and scowled at him, close enough to grab but far enough away to run if need be. “I was here before you tonight. You do not get to take this win from me, pretty man.”

He’d watched the house for a week before making a move, even walked right in one afternoon dressed as a plumber, flirted with the housekeeper until he had a schedule, knew just when the owners would be out. He’d been thorough, was the point. No one was supposed to be here, except the guard who he’d already dodged, which was why Leo’s angry whisper made him jump, just a little, visible skin blending in with the black of his clothes and the shadows behind him for half a second.

Only half a second though, and then he realized who’d spoken and scowled, features visible once more. “Me?” he snapped, incredulous but quiet, careful. “I thought you died! Or at least did me the courtesy of getting yourself deported. And fuck you, here before me, I’ve been on this job for days.” He flapped a hand at Leo, as if he might swat away the hand the other thief had gestured with. “Like hell I’m just going to leave. You leave. Tell me how pretty I am before you go though.”

Atticus grumbled incoherently under his breath as he walked to the bar.  He didn’t want to use speed - wasn’t sure if he could, and he didn’t want to go from a few hundred miles an hour to nothing at the drop of a hat, because who knew what could happen around here - so it took forever to get there.  He was dressed in his regular clothes, but they seemed oversized and it’s as if he dropped nearly a foot in height - he couldn’t reach any of the cereal bowls in his apartment and it sucked.  So he found Noah right where he figured he would, nursing something at the bar, and he burst right in, tapping the other’s shoulder with a near permanent scowl.  “Alright, Noah, it’s me,” he said, before sighing and placing hands on his hips.  “Just give it to me straight - have I lost my indescribable charm that makes me me?” @noah-wright​

Noah was nursing a glass of cheap bourbon and thinking about stealing a pair of headphones that the man next to him had left carelessly sitting on the bar when someone tapped him on the shoulder. It took him a moment to tear his eyes away from the headphones--they were nice, was the thing, but probably not nice enough to be worth the trouble--and then his brow furrowed as he took in the scowling young woman before him, who seemed to think he knew her. Did he know her? She seemed unhappy. Had he slept with her and promised to call? That was a lie he needed to stop telling. There was an apology on the tip of his tongue--another lie, sue him--but then she spoke again, and her question gave Noah pause.

He tipped his head to one side, puzzle pieces clicking into place as he looked her over from head to toe--a familiar shirt on a skinny frame, big eyes with a hint of mischief in them, and all of the strange things that had happened lately. A laugh slipping past his lips, he said, “Atticus?” and then laughed harder, nodded at the seat beside him that wasn’t currently occupied. “God damn, baby. Guess not, seein’ as I can still tell it’s you. Sit down, I’ll buy you a drink. Look like you need one. Happened to me, too, by the way, if that helps any. I had bigger tits though.”

In all honesty, Guillermo wasn’t sure what to do with Noah Wright. No one else would have the kind of information about Leigh that her own brother would, but he was…well, a pain in the ass. On the surface he seemed to be smashing his way through any barrier he could find, reckless and devil-may-care in equal measure. Not the kind of person he’d use as an informant, let alone take with him to stake out a new lead’s location. He’d pulled the man’s file at CARMA, read it about ten times over, but watching him squirm now was giving him a better insight than any dry arrest records. There was guilt there, any time they discussed Leigh. Guilt, honest pain, and grief. Those were powerful motivators all their own and Noah had insights and skills that he didn’t. So that and the fact that Guillermo had a soft spot for this case in general was in Noah’s favor. But the vest? He wasn’t going to back down on that. “No, you can’t. But we’re going to do our fucking best, right? That being said, there’s ground rules.” Guillermo said, his voice softer than usual after seeing the look on Noah’s face a moment before. 

The bitching though, that made him roll his eyes. “You’re a liability even WITH the vest, Mr. Wright. And I am sure as fuck not taking on the liability you become without it. So you wear it, or…” He opened the door of the car, then shut it behind himself before Noah could make a move. A snap of his fingers locked the doors of the car, held fast against any attempt the other man might make to get out. “I leave you here all night. And believe me, you can try that door till your hands bleed. It’s not going to budge.” If he had to be an asshole and waste some of his concentration to keep those doors locked, he’d do it. There was a limit to how much trouble he was willing to get into on this guy’s behalf, and that limit was going to get carved in stone before they moved one step further into the alleyway. “Rule one is you wear the vest, rule two is you follow orders. My orders, not anything you make up yourself. Rule three is that you keep your hands to yourself. I read your police file, I know what you do with your time. I don’t give a shit what you do on your own time, but here? Now? We’re not working for CARMA or ourselves. As far as I’m concerned we’re working for your sister.” Guillermo paused, standing close enough to the door that Noah could hear him. He offered him a tight smile, then nodded at the glass. “You gonna put it on or what?”

“I’m not a liability,” Noah started immediately, spine straightening defensively, because he might not have been a trained CARMA agent, but he knew perfectly well what he was capable of--it was not, after all, pure luck that had kept him alive all these years. He didn’t get a chance to argue further before Guillermo got out of the car, the doors locking behind him before Noah could even lift a hand to open his. He’d heard the telltale click of a lock perfectly well, but he tried the handle anyway, throat tight with anxiety when the door refused to open, memories of tiny dark closets with their doors held shut by older kids surfacing from the corners he’d long ago locked them in.

Half a second of glaring at Guillermo, and then Noah was tossing the vest into the driver’s seat and diving into his bag, shoving his sewing aside in search of his lock picks, or a knife, anything to jimmy the lock or--fuck it, he’d settle for breaking a window, he wasn’t the youngest kid in the foster home anymore, this guy didn’t get to power trip him into obedience. Noah wasn’t a cop and he wouldn’t take orders from one, no matter how handsome he was, or what pretty words he said about justice, and--

“As far as I’m concerned we’re working for your sister.”

Noah’s hands stilled in his bag, his jaw working for a moment, gaze fixed on a spot on the dashboard rather than Guillermo’s face on the other side of the glass. 

Leigh. He was doing this for Leigh. He could do this for Leigh. 

Stiffly, Noah sat up straight again, abandoned his quest to escape the car or at least trash it trying. He picked up the vest, still holding it the way he might a rotting fish, and dropped it unceremoniously over his head, not bothering to fight with the straps in the confines of the car. Turning to face Guillermo, Noah held his hands out at his sides, lips pursed with disdain. “Happy?” he asked, voice tight and controlled, not his usual lazy drawl. “Open the fucking door, asshole.”

“Is this... different than usual?”

“Someone take a picture of me, quick, I need to send it to like, at least seven different nuns.”