Status: Closed ( @tierneysinclair)

Jack knows where Tierney works. The request on his credit check to rent the place had pinged Jack’s brain like a handful of Pop Rocks the moment it was submitted, and he’d seen the address as he’d pushed it into the digital equivalent of the ‘all clear’ pile. His first few days in Miami are packed with similar boring, routine work; deleting everyone’s Miami-to-Chicago paper trails, the flight records of the mutants who’d travelled by plane and the speeding ticket one dumbfuck had managed driving their way over. Once he’s done with that though, he finds himself wandering in the garage’s direction, and before he knows it he’s outside Tierney’s place.

Jack slips in the garage silently, hands in his pockets, casual as if he does this every day. As if they hadn’t both just moved across a country in an unprecedented and sudden life change.

The first thing he does inside is walk around the place, ignoring Tierney entirely. He can’t tell if it’s any better or worse than the last place since he knows fuck-all about garages, and isn’t one to hand out random compliments anyway, but he still inspects every corner, taking in the familiar and somehow comforting scent of oil and metal. As he moves he keeps an eye out for something small and shiny to pocket, keep his hands busy, but his first pass yields no results. It’s completely possible that the place is too new to be messy yet– from his experience Tierney always has some shit lying around, so it’s pretty disappointing.

When there’s nothing else to look at, Jack perches on a work stool by where Tierney is working, legs crossed and back a bit too straight. It’s closer than he’d normal get, just a few feet between them, but it’s been a while since he’s seen the guy so he does it anyway. Not that he’s missed him or anything, but this gives Jack a better view of what the hell Tierney’s doing. Motorcycles fascinate Jack– big, loud, fast machines, with flashy lights and glossy bodies. He’s always liked cars for the same reason, and motorcycles are basically cars stripped down to their most dangerous parts, so it’s a win-win.

He leans back in his own chair, keeping a careful watch on her and the rest of the bar. He wants to believe her, wants to trust that whatever she’d done up there in his head wasn’t invasive…but Tierney isn’t what someone would call, trusting. It takes a great force of will to swallow past the lump in his throat. He wants to tell her something but he knows who she is and her knowing him? Could lead to some terrible things. After a long, long, moment he speaks again. “My loyalties lie with the Syndicate As they have for the past twenty some odd years. They are the bulk of my clientele. I was not lying when I said I followed my employers.” He clears his throat. “I think telling you any more than that would be a bad idea. For the both of us.”

He takes a long drink of his whiskey, relishing in the heavy burn as it slides down his throat. The clink of his glass on the table feels definite. “I’m choosing to trust that you didn’t pull anything out of my head of use.” He considers it a high honor, though he won’t tell her that. He likes her too much, the months of quiet coffee conversation has done a lot to soften him. The last thing he wants to believe is that she’d been using him. “You’ve never struck me as an outright liar in the time I’ve known you. Take that as you wish.”

Believe it or not, I don’t actually want to hurt you. Once again, Abigail rolls her eyes. “Believe it or not, Tierney, I can’t see you hurting me either. No matter how scary you apparently think you are, I do know you. Maybe not everything, but enough. I’m confident of that.” She takes another sip of her drink, gathering her thoughts, the war of feelings in her chest like a hive of wasps. “And I’m not underestimating you either. Similar to how I’ve never struck you as an ‘outright liar’-- thank you so much for that, by the way-- you’ve never struck me as an innocent kitten either. I’m sure you’re quite terrifying when you need to be.” The sarcasm isn’t quite necessary, but something in the way he’s acting, all sharp and tough like she’s suddenly become some stranger, rubs her the wrong way. Abigail knows her sniping like this isn’t going to get them anywhere either, but. Ugh.

A bad idea. For the both of us. She holds back a frustrated sigh. “God, you’re difficult. It was a 50-50 chance that you’d be part of the Syndicate, you know. But I guess that’s something.” 

Despite her irritation, she knows that she needs to be more careful with him. At the end of the day she does care about Tierney, dearly even, and wouldn’t regret his loss. The thought alone makes her wants to move forward, extend a hand again, but she remembers how well that went over last time so she abstains. It really is like dealing with a specific kind of hurt animal, as likely to flee as to strike. Right now, in this most delicate of situations, she knows to approach with caution, or risk losing his friendship completely. 

“Look. Tierney.” Abigail puts her hands flat on the table, an open gesture. “I know we’ve both made some... regretful choices today. Lashed out. And I can tell from how you’ve clammed up that you think this is the end for our friendship. But I don’t see why it has to be a big deal.” She leans back, mirroring his posture, as she searches his face. “All healthy relationships have their boundaries. We don’t need to bring work into this, if it would mean losing something good.”

“With fingers like those?” He laughs and brings his tools to the ground with a gentle clink. “You’re probably going to have way more success than me.” He grins and scoots over a little bit to make room for Jack on the floor. “You’ll have to come down here though. Careful not to sit in the grease stains.” Tierney gestures vaguely to a discolored patch of concrete. It probably won’t leave a stain but…Tierney wouldn’t know since most of his clothes are already grease stained monstrosities. He watches Jack expectantly, quietly. Jack and him? They aren’t small talk people. Their people of action. He puts his hand on the part with the blockage.

“You’ll have to be careful, you press too hard and you might bend the pipe. Not a bad thing, but not great. And when you get it, try not to drop it.” He smirks. “That’s part of what got us into this mess in the first place.” He uses his free hand to gesture towards the bike. “And don’t worry about tipping the bike. I’ve got a hold of it. He isn’t going anywhere.”

Jack avoids looking at Tierney as he slides to the ground beside him, instead focusing on his array of tools-- metal, heavy, solid. Not unlike Tierney himself. Both are so far outside of Jack’s world, his life of floating code and flashing images and the taste of neon electricity on his tongue; the solid cold of technology, zeroes and ones, clashing with the hazy, lazy absurdity of humanity’s touch. Compared to that, Tierney, his garage, they might as well be an alien world. One where things make a simple sort of sense, the clean, easy design of motorcycle parts made to fit together, problems with set solutions. Of course Jack’s fascinated, drawn to their purely intellectual relationship. It has nothing to do with Tierney as a person-- it’s the contrast. Obviously.

Jack nods at the instructions, only half-hearing. It’s important stuff, probably, but he’s half mesmerized by proximity to the bike’s open side, and half trying not to think about Tierney saying ‘with hands like those?’ He gets close enough to the bike so that his nose is almost touching metal, not giving a fuck about his long sleeves brushing against engine grease, or whatever weird machine oils he can feel soaking the knees of his jeans. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he reaches two thin fingers into the machine.

It’s... weird. The uniform cold of metal, smooth and sharp edges, a bit of something slippery he guesses is more grease. Absently, Jack makes a note to remember to clean his nails tonight; he hates when stuff gets stuck under the edges. Finally, his fingers brush something that moves, sliding away against his touch, and he uses his nails to scoot it over until he can get a hold on it. With a flourish he pulls the piece of metal from the machine, presenting it to Tierney like a kid with a prize, heart beat speeding with victory. “It’s this, right?” he says, casual as he can manage, dropping it in Tierney’s hand.