#fake ah queue

Trevor walked down the beach, the wind whipping at his hair. It was late fall, the water was even icier than normal and his canvas shoes were steadily filling with sand. He watched the waves crest and fall and crest and fall over and over themselves, pulling his jacket tighter to himself.

She was sitting on a bench against the structural logs keeping the pier upright, her lip split, bruising under her eye and she pulled her glasses off to clean them from the salt spray. Trevor dropped down beside her.

“You look like hell,” he said. She laughed gently under her breath, putting her glasses back on her face and looked at him. Trevor was also beaten to hell and back, stitches on his forehead, bandage over the bridge of his nose and his cheek. He smiled though, despite it probably busting open the scabbing on his cheek.

“So do you,” she replied easily. She stood and offered a hand, Trevor standing and wrapping an arm around her shoulder while they headed up the beach, hers landing low on his back. “I thought you were long gone by now,” she admitted.

“I’m a Fake. I’m always gonna be here, it’s home now.”

Ky sighed, long and tired, looking back at the sea. It continued to kick up spray and the wind made her platinum blonde locks tousle into her eyes. She looked to the pier, the road ahead, the congregation of cops at the mouth of it that had no idea that two of the city’s most infamous criminals were right under their noses.

“If you think I’m gonna stand idly by and listen to a bloody manc, you got another thing comin’,” Gavin quipped, standing in the bar. Silas set the glass to the side, turning around to lean on the bar. The bar hadn’t even opened yet but Silas knew better than to think that Gavin wouldn’t find a way in.

Gavin had pushed his aviators to the top of his head, glaring at him. His golden rings glimmered in the light streaming through the windows, bouncing off of them and shining onto the polished counter of the bar. Silas tapped his fingers on the counter.

“I would only expect something like that from a fucking prat like you.”

“Better a prat than a slag.”

“You wanna make this personal, Gavino? What you got against mancs anyway?”

“Moving here doesn’t change the way I feel about back home. You bloody northerners are all the damn same, fucking footie and the easy way of life. I’m surprised you could find your way out of that labyrinth to begin with-”

“Well look at the fucking southern's, pompous full-of-yourself pricks,” Silas shot back. “Just because you’re from London doesn’t make you any better than us. In fact, I believe I’m the one who runs a crew while you’re still running after DG,” he mentioned.

“You have no idea what kind of crew we run,” Gavino warned him, low and dropping his hands on the bar counter where he had strode up to him. “We made a deal, the two of us, and as much as I’d prefer not to, I’m going to keep it. DG is my boss, but he’s also my friend, so the next time you think you’re gonna come at me with an order, you better go through DG. Otherwise, I don’t know what my trigger finger’s gonna do.”

“You threatenin’ me, London boy?”