Wesley Cabot

Though if it’s true, it’s just one more reason to put the man in a  cage where he belongs. “You sure it wasn’t John Smith?”

There’s a shake of his head, before he glances down. “Seven Sins, right? That’s where you do most of your business?“ He flips idly through the file, as though he needs it in front of him to verify that much. This time he doesn’t. It was tempting to order the Los Angeles contingent to break down the doors of the strip club next, to start pulling people from every dark corner and hole in the wall where mutants might be hidden. The option isn’t completely off the table either, not with the two people he knows for a certainty are the worst kind of criminals still at large, and he could only make guesses at who else they had with them.

Still, if he hasn’t done it yet, the next threat’s not an idle one. He’ll keep knocking on doors and dragging people off the streets until someone breaks, and whether it’s the man in front of him or the scared prostitute he employs, all that matters to him are the results. “So why don’t I bring in those younger girls and ask them check your story? In fact, better grab all of them.”

There’s no light at the end of this tunnel. 

“You must really be desperate,” he says, not looking at the man, but keeping his gaze to the side. The drugs are still weighing him down, making him lucid enough that the filter on his mouth threatens to break. He won’t let anything slip and he’ll do what he has to. Anything to keep his secrets, and others, to himself. He doesn’t care who is behind that mirror or what they do to him. And he doubts Rhys, as little as he knows about him, is going to give the man much else. 

“I was going to save this tactic for...much further into this process,” he tips his head back, like he’s settling in for a long ride in the chair he’s seated on. He clears his throat and then starts to bellow a song. It’s both to be a nuisance and to keep himself from saying anything, showing that he’s shutting down instead of opening up the way the man wants him to. 

“What will we do with the drunken sailor, what will we do with the drunken sailor, what will we do with the drunken sailor, early in the morning...” He lifts his head to look at the two way mirror. “Everybody now!” And continues with the same melody once more. 

And the threat just earns him another head shake, a swift denial of all the information he wants to drag from between his teeth. It’s enough to have him standing, hands splaying flat against the metal table. “If that were true, you would’ve called me when this asshole walked through the door.”

“Who is he? Friend of yours? Acquaintance? Client?” He presses the question, shoving the sketch closer and tapping his finger over his face again. He doesn’t believe that one man will hold all his answers. Just enough of them, and knowing he escaped custody when Griffith had him all but gift wrapped is too grating a feeling. He’s proud of the work he does. Every capture, every containment, every mutant put behind bars or executed at his own hands.

He isn’t perfect and his record’s not flawless. But it’s the best he’s ever been at anything in his life, something exceptional when eh was born mundane. The man in question is a black mark on that record. “Should I start dragging your girls in here and asking them?”

He taps the picture again and Wes looks down at it, staring into Jackson’s face. It makes the next words hard to hear. That the man wants to start bringing some of his girls in, questioning them. It’s almost the thing that flips him. There’s not many things he’s protective of in life, but his girls are one of them. He’d vowed to protect them. But would he choose them over the Syndicate? 

“Alright, alright,” he says, nodding his head like that’s the key to everything. Like he’s ready to cut the bullshit. “His name is Jake Ryan,” he says, spouting the lie easily. A reference to Sixteen Candles, because it was the first movie that popped into his head. He can still pretend to not know anything, but it’s not getting them anywhere and maybe he can buy some time giving them information to throw them off the scent. “He’s a client. Likes the...younger girls, you know?” he nods his head like the Corinthian should understand everything. 

It’s all bullshit and while he can’t say it will protect his girls, he doesn’t think he can give over the Syndicate. If it ruins him, if any of his girls are hurt by this, he’ll shoulder the guilt. 

“Save the bullshit.” His voice comes out sharp, but for the moment Griff’s still calm. He can feel the first sparks of his temper starting to flare, fully aware that he would never excel at playing good cop. The urge to start slamming the man’s head off the table is too strong.

“You were caught in a bar with a number of known terrorists, including the one we brought in with you.” It might not be true, but it’s true enough as far as he’s concerned. Rhys Archer has a record, and it doesn’t seem hard to him to play connect the dots. The sketch in front of him, the man across from him, they were all caught in the same building, one that they pulled too many bodies of Initiative agents out of. Throats cut and bullets fired, and if the place had set off his suspicions in the first place, this had just solidified what a viper’s nest they’d walked into.

“You have limited options here, Wes. You can either start being honest with me now, or I can start finding other ways of making you talk.”

A threat comes next. That he can either cut the bullshit, start telling the truth, or the man will find other ways to get him to talk. He grits his teeth, head tipped back because there’s nothing he can say that will get him out of this and he’s aware of that. But there’s nothing he’s going to say that isn’t different from what he’s already said. That he doesn’t know anything. Regardless if it’s true or not, he will never say anything else. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man, I swear,” he says, shaking his head and looking across at the man. “I had your card, I would have called you if I knew anything.” It’s the best he has and he wonders what the man will bring at him next. What the other ways to get him to talk are. He doubts they’re going to be pleasant. “God, this is bullshit, man.” 

“Yes, you do,” he says shortly, bitten off on the heels Cabot’s words. There’s little need to make a list which lie he’s talking about, when he firmly believes now that everything that came out of his mouth was bullshit. But protestations of innocence ore ignorance won’t save him now.

He shifts forward in his seat, elbows settling on the table and folder half forgotten beneath him. His criminal record, his tax records, all those papers that define a normal citizen. He doesn’t get to claim to be one of them now, found in a den of vipers and sharing drinks with them. “You’re going to give me names. Mutations. Addresses. Accomplices. Everything you know about who launched the terrorist attack on Los Angeles.”

His hand moves, tugging a familiar police sketch free. Only this time it’s followed by grainy shots from an officer’s body camera, and there’s something all too personal in the question. They should have him in custody already. Griffith had him, and someone had fucked it up, lost a terrorist he’d beaten and all but gift wrapped. “You can start with him.”

“What the-...” he frowns, lifting his head back up and looking across the table at the man. “I don’t know anything about that,” he says and it’s almost convincing. Probably would be to someone who didn’t think they already knew all the answers. He suspected the man across from him was exactly that. 

“Look, tax evasion, okay, I’m sorry. It’s hard to claim pimping on any sort of tax form. And those parking tickets -- I promise I’ll pay them. But terrorist attacks? Come on, man. I make love, not war. Why would I do something like that? I don’t got anything against Los Angeles.” He almost makes a slip up. Almost says the Initiative. But that was never in the news. As far as the public was concerned, it was innocent civilians who’d lost their lives that night. 

When he slips the pictures onto the table, Wes looks down at them, shaking his head. He licks his lips, mouth dry and he can’t help the look of pain on his face as he eyes the man across from him. “I don’t know him,” he says. More like pleas, because he knows already. The man won’t believe him. 

Apparently his father isn’t one of them. He notes the lack of reaction and files it away.

“You’re a pimp. Apple didn’t fall that far from the tree.” He says it bluntly, little urge to keep it to himself when he doesn’t see that it’s anything he can use as leverage. Just his way of impressing that bullshit won’t get him a pass this time. They’re not at a bar, he’s long past the point where he has to pretend he doesn’t view everyone and anyone with paranoia and suspicion. 

“But I’ll be honest with you, Wes. Can I call you Wes?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, gaze drifting up from the file to fixate on the man, though at this point he doesn’t need the visual cues to know he’s a liar. He just wants to gauge every reaction, watch for that sliver of fear that a smart man would already feel creeping up his spine. “It’s not really jail time you should be worried about right now. It’s me. And I’m already hurt that you sat there and lied right to my fucking face. Not a good way to make friends, Wes.”

The next words have him letting out a slow breath. He has to debate for a moment how to respond to it and he frowns slightly, looking across at the man. He could play stupid, but he’s still not aware how much the man knows. And he doubts whether he lies or not is going to save him from this position. He feels like he’s already defeated. So he lets out a small huff of air, shaking his head. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” he says, looking across at him and maybe they both know that’s a lie. But it’s the only answer he’s going to give. He’s certain of that. I don’t know. Whatever the man asks, that’s all he’s going to get out of him. About being a mutant, about the Syndicate, about everything. He’s sure this is about the Syndicate. He doesn’t know if someone confirmed his involvement with them or not, but he’s not going to be the one to utter the words or any sort of confirmation. No matter what. 

It has him leaning his head back and his mouth is moving because it’s his only line of defense in this situation. “I thought we hit it off.” 

He flips open the folder in front of him, but it’s all for show. He already knows what’s inside it, as many details as he could cram into his head already committed to memory. It’s less than he’d like, but it’s not a fact he volunteers. And if anything the absence of official records is something he can only take as another sign of guilt. Law abiding citizens tend to leave more of a trail.

“Well, it looks like your father’s got quite the rap sheet. But not you. Dropped assault charges. Tax audit. Petty shit, mostly.” He flips through with idle disinterest, and there’s no doubts at all that the ‘career’ the man has listed for the government’s benefit isn’t how he makes a living.

That doesn’t matter to him either. Maybe it should, because he used to wear a police badge. But serve and protect had always meant less to him than it should.

“What happened? Couldn’t life up to the old man, or just didn’t get caught?“

The man starts out with simple things. A crime record, though short as it was. And a father who was notorious before he was killed for the notoriety. He smirks slightly, because that’s not going to get under his skin. If he had a good poker face the first time they met, the drugs hinder it this time, or he’d play stupid again. He’d do a good job. But in his mind, he knew when the jig was up. And it was up the moment that bag was put over his head. Now it was just a matter of dealing with the fallout. 

“Guess we just weren’t cut from the same cloth,” he says, that smirk still on his face. He hadn’t followed in his father’s footsteps. And if that folder tells the man anything, he probably already knows that any dream of making a name for himself, or for his littler brother, was dashed when his mother got sick. There was no time to be a gangster when he had a mother dying from cancer. 

“Too bad,” Wes nods his head. “Guy knew how to cook up a mean souffle. Would have liked to inherit that skill. Mine always comes out...limp.” 

The room is blank and stark, nothing that might separate it from any police station and barely above a prison cell. Above them are bright fluorescent lights, casting an ominous glow and black shadows across the ground. A two way mirror sits at his back, where other agents and maybe Nixon will stand and watch, a metal table in front of him and a chair to match on the other side. It’s there that they dump the man, cuffs still around his wrist and black bag over his head.

Processing is an exhausting endeavor. But he knew what he was signing up for when he asked for this, and for every body taken away in a black bag, what’s more vital to him are the ones still breathing. The ones who can give him his answers, if he has to yank them forcibly from his jaws with a pair of pliers.

The black bag comes off first. And if he can only imagine how the man’s feeling, there isn’t a trace of pity in him. Pumped full of drugs to keep him docile, hopefully loosen his tongue, and he’s sure a few bruises just to get the point across. Maybe the man deserves every one of them, maybe he’s just caught in the crossfire, but Griff learned a long time ago that no one was innocent.

A manila folder slaps down on the table between them as he takes his seat across from him. “Wesley Cabot. We need to talk.”

They’d pumped him full of drugs as soon as they were in the van and it kept him lucid enough that he couldn’t keep up with what had been going on around him. Isolated and drugged and he didn’t know how long it was since he was taken, or where Rhys was or anyone else he cared about. But when they came to pull him to his feet, dragging him to an interrogation room and sitting him down on a cold, metal chair, he wasn’t ready for the bag to be removed from his head. 

Or for the man that was standing across from him. 

Ken doll. Mason, or whatever that card had said. He’d handed it off to Eli and had left it up to him to take care of. Or do with what he wanted. Maybe they hadn’t acted fast enough, or maybe this guy was just that good. Maybe the Syndicate had gotten docile dealing with an Initiative who didn’t fight back hard enough. Either way, Wes could tell he was alone in the room with this man. And none of the Syndicate was here now. No protection anymore. Maybe now it was Wesley’s turn to pay up. 

“Hey, man,” he greets in a shaky, voice, though the tone is casual. Light as he always is. “I remember you.” 

In the few moments the man was winded, the success that was her training being proved again, Lorelei cast her eyes over to the rest of the agents who were taking on the other suspect. A frown fell over her brow as she saw how well he was doing. There had been trust when she’d had her her attention stolen that those who worked with her would be able to hold their own. They did, after all, out number him. But clearly she was going to have to help them clean up when she’d dealt with this one. 

Except he clearly wasn’t going to make it easy on her. 

His hand wraps around her leg in her distraction and in seconds she’s on the ground, albeit with hands out to break her fall. That was what training did for you and that was what was going to make all the difference between her and this man. He might have adrenaline on his side, along with the natural desire to stay alive but Lorelei had a clear head and years of training in these situations. She didn’t hesitant before shifting to pin him down with a knee on his chest and the other on the ground to steady herself. On hand pressed down on his shoulder and the other held down a wrist. It was a strong enough hold but there was little uncertainty that the man had enough size on his side to dislodge her if her tried hard enough. If not then the cuffs that she’d gone for earlier would find their way around his wrists, whether her wanted leopard print or not.

Her blue eyes take on an almost icy hue as she focuses on the man she’s got pinned. There’s no room for any type of feeling in this situation. No room for sympathy or even the smallest tinge of regret. “Stay down.” As much as she’d like to say it was purely a command, there’s perhaps the edge of a plea to him. Imploring him to make it easier on the both of them and not keep up the fighting any longer. She’d find out in the next few seconds whether he’d have the sense to take notice of her or not.

He spun around to try and help Wes with the woman, who seemed to be far more skilled in fighting than her partners were. While he was in the clear in that moment, he wasn’t planning on leaving Wes behind to try and fight his way out on his own. Not when Rhys could help him. He stepped forward, but froze at the click of the safety on a pistol in his right ear.

Rhys froze in place, only his gaze turning to his left. He only caught the sight of a shadow on his left, then a demand to put his hands up. Fuck. Rhys was quick, but not fast enough to dodge a bullet. He wasn’t going to risk trying to disarm the guy and get his head blown off in the process. The sinking realization hit him as his hands rose up to his shoulders, palms out as his jaw clenched. He wasn’t getting home that night. And Seb wouldn’t know. All he knew was that Rhys was going out and would be home soon. Soon was quickly turning into never, and Sebastian was going to be alone again.

Soon enough, he heard the rush of footsteps behind him, his arms yanked down behind him as his hands were cuffed behind him. His gaze turned from Wes and the woman struggling on the floor to the chaos all around them. Bodies running and fists flying everywhere, glass shattering and guns shooting off rang in his ears. But through the crowd, he managed to catch sight of a familiar red head. Friday. She looked so afraid– why was she there? She should have been far from there, anywhere but in the tavern. Away from all this danger.

Rhys’ gaze met hers for a brief moment, hoping none of the guards restraining him spotted him, especially when his lips opened and formed one wordless demand: “Run.”

Then the black bag was slipped over his head.

But he also didn’t want to get a black bag put over his head. Didn’t want to wind up in a facility somewhere. He liked his life the way it was and he’d, for the most part, had been minding his own business. Hadn’t used his powers for anything other than small vandalism in the past year or so. He didn’t embrace being what he was with any sort of vigor and it seemed unfair to him to be persecuted just because his DNA was a little different. But then again, he supposed that’s what the whole argument about all of this was about. Nothing about the Initiative and what they did was fair. 

The woman on top of him commands him to stay down and maybe there was another joke on the tip of his tongue, or maybe there was more fight in him that could have got him to try and flip her. To reverse their positions. But there’s guns pointed in his direction and towards Rhys and towards other people he cares about. So he winds up just nodding. 

“Alright, alright,” he tells her, his hands splayed to show that he’s not fighting back. There’s a war going on in his mind, that if he fights back, maybe he’ll go in with broken bones or bullets. But if he goes nicely from here on out, maybe there’d be some mercy. Maybe it’d be better to go in with himself in tact -- just in case there’s a chance to escape later on. 

But Wes, being Wes, couldn’t help the slight smirk on his lips. Because there’s also the thought that he takes everything in life with the same grain of salt. And if he loses that now, then there’s no point. “You know, you’re kind of hot in this position.” 

All around them violence broke out as Lorelei struggled to find some words that would still sound as reasonable as she had at first. Fists were thrown, bottles smashed and it wasn’t long before gunshots were fired, though she couldn’t be confident who fired first. While her intentions might have been to do with as peaceful as possible - at least trying to appear civilised - other around them seemed to have their own ideas. Her eyes flickered over the situation, there was something that once upon a time might have been classed as sadness there before any emotion fading from her blue gaze as it seemed she had no other choice but to use everything she had been trained for.

The man who tried to keep the peace caught her by surprise, causing the slightest frown of confusion to form. It wasn’t the way he rushed at her, she’d been trained for that, it were the light words that he’d said before that still ringing in her head. Not once had she ever been addressed with humour during something like that and she couldn’t remember the last time someone had try to joke with her. It was odd to think about how five years ago the comments would have provoked some sort of retaliation from her. Either a smile followed by a comeback or a threat not to call her sweetheart. 

But now she was just blank. Just an agent.

The lunge is dodged skillfully, lithe body moving easily out the way. Knowing she couldn’t guarantee she’d be able to take both the men, Lorelei jerked her head toward the other one issuing a clear order to the agents who had been at her back. “Get him.” This wasn’t going to be an easy fight, she knew that muc, but they’d swung first and that meant that any reluctance she’d had to go into this at full throtle were gone. Turning to face the man who’d lunged she sent out a quik right hook, not waiting to see if it hit its mark before sweeping her leg out to try to take his out from underneath him.

“That makes two of us, then,” he replied just before Wes lunged at the woman.

We wasn’t planning on going in and neither was Rhys. It was made evident when the other man had lunged straight for the woman, a very bold move against her and her lackies. But she seemed to have a handle on him, moving swiftly to dodge and counter his attack. But Rhys had little time– and care– to admire her fighting skills. She gave an order for them to come after him. Like hell he would let them take him or any of the others.

The first agent tried to reach for Rhys’ shoulder, but he reacted too quickly for the agent to find a grip. He shoved his arm aside with one hand, bringing his other fist to connect with the man’s jaw in a hard punch. As soon as Rhys shoved him backwards, the second agent came in to take his place. The more the merrier for Rhys. He had quite a bit of pent up aggression to take out on them. That, and he needed to get back home. It was why he agreed with Wes: he wasn’t going anywhere with them. He needed to make sure the others would get out alive, that none of them were getting shot and if that was the case, he needed to get out to help them. And he needed to get back home to Sebastian. He had to.

First, he had to help Wes clear out their group of Initiative and this woman, who seemed more than capable of fighting. The second agent was much faster, fist catching Rhys just beneath his eye. But it had only fueled his anger and he swung a fist at the man’s gut before aiming for his face with his other hand. He still wished he had a knife, a gun– anything more than just throwing punches and kicks at these motherfuckers.

She lashes out with her own right hook and while he manages to take it as a glancing blow, knowing it’ll leave a mark beneath his left eye but not daze him during this fight, he doesn’t quite manage to see the leg she swings out at his own. He’s off his feet and on the ground with an embarrassing speed. His back hitting the floorboards with a thud and it knocks the wind straight from his lungs, hard for him to catch his breath afterwards. 

Rhys is somewhere behind him, fighting off another agent that she’d ordered to take him on. He hoped the man was faring better than him. Hoped everyone was. But he wasn’t out of fight yet and he made a grab for her leg in an attempt to at least bring her down to the same level he was floundering around on. Maybe he could use strength and weight to get the upper hand, because he sure wasn’t going to keep up with how quick she was. 

Even with all the thoughts going through his head on how he was going to win this fight, he was still highly aware there were shots ringing out. Everyone in here was potentially fighting for their lives and Wes could feel the adrenaline pumping at the thought of that. There were people in this bar he cared about, that he would dare call friends and actually mean it with any sort of intimacy. That fear of what was happening to them was almost crippling, but he wasn’t going to let it keep him from fighting with everything he had. 

For a brief moment there was some kind of impasse as she stood unmoving with her gun trained on the one who appeared more volatile. Lowering her gun, some sort of gesture of good will to take them at their word, Lorelei gave a nod to those around her to also relinquish their easy aim. They’d all been trained well enough that if the situation called for it the weapons could be raised quickly enough with deadly accuracy once more. Through she’d always hope it wouldn’t come to that. Unnecessary loss of life was exactly the reason she’d joined the group in the first place so it was needless to say that the brunette tried to avoid it where possible. 

Of course sometimes it wasn’t and her hands would always bear the stain of the blood she’d been forced to shed. Didn’t stop her from holding on to some vain hope that that wouldn’t be necessary. Only time would tell if this was going to be a situation that forced her hand into violence or if she’d be able to walk away from this without causing any bodies to end up in a black bag.

With a measured movement, her hand travelled her hip to rest on the handcuffs she was still hoping wouldn’t have to be used. She addressed the men calmly and evenly, almost reasonably if you weren’t someone whose DNA had marked them out to be hunted. “If that’s the case then you gentlemen won’t have anything to worry about.” There was no trace of hatred or anger aimed at them or other who could potentially be mutants. It had been too long since she’d felt anything for there to be an emotion other than neutrality hidden there. “We just have some questions, as soon as they’re answered you’ll be free to go, if nothing is awry.” She couldn’t promise them what would happen if they were found out to be mutant, that would be the decision of her superiors. 

It wasn’t just that the others were being cuffed and brought in– he knew why it was happening. It was that, once again, The Initiative was fucking things up for him and everyone else and he was seemingly powerless to stop it. It seemed like some of the others had other plans and fought back, but if Wes was going for a more peaceful approach, then Rhys could comply. Or try to. If there was an opportunity for an out, though, he was taking it. He had to get back home to Seb. No chance in hell was he going to let The Initiative take the chance to see him away again. Not when it had been so long. Not when he just got him back.

The woman finally lowered her weapon but Rhys didn’t relax. Dark eyes followed her movements in a rather harsh glare. He wanted to scoff. It sure as hell didn’t seem like they wanted to ask questions. Just raiding the tavern that just so happened to be a Syndicate safe spot. But Rhys wasn’t about to call attention to that fact. “Sounds like a step up from shooting first and asking questions later,” he replied in a bitter tone. “Too bad you’re not as convincing as you’d like to be.”

Rhys was seething, that was more than evident. Usually he would have opted for the negotiating, finding a peaceful resolve. But his anger toward The Initiative burned too hot for him to be nice. They killed Lucretia, and the deaths of his parents at their hands had only recently been confirmed. They took Naomi, Emery, Orion, and others– ruined their lives and never showed them any mercy until they had to be rescued. Why should he fold to their demands? Even if the woman was true to her word, Rhys wasn’t buying it for a second. Especially with the sound of crashing glass and fists connecting with bodies not far from where they stood.

“So much for just asking questions, right?”

“Alright, sweetheart, well you seem like a nice lady, you really do,” Wes says as the woman comes closer to him, handcuffs out. He’s aware that Rhys is holding back as well, but the tension in the air is so palpable he can practically feel it crackling around him. Something’s about to break and Wes doesn’t think this place is going to stay civil for much longer. “But you handcuffs are severely lacking in the leopard print department for my kind of style.” 

There are more smartass quips on his tongue, more that he’s willing to throw at her to distract her, but the sound of guns going off have Wes wincing. It’s only for a short moment. He tries to pull at his power, at anything metal in the room, but nothing answers him and he doesn’t have to guess why. Corinthian. One of them was, at least, and he was betting that Ken doll douchebag up front was the culprit. 

“Not going in,” he tells her as he lunges for her. “Not today, sister.” There’s a desperate and awful realization that he could wind up dead in the next few moments, or with a bag over his head and he’s not ready. He’s not ready for any of that. Granted, he’d celebrated more birthdays than he thought he would already, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to celebrate any more. He had things he still wanted to do, friends he was going to miss if all of a sudden his life was torn away from him. 

It meant he was fighting with everything he had. 

“Yeah, things are going pretty good,” he replied with a nod. The assault on The Initiative had added stress to the group as a whole in its own ways, but for Rhys, it was quickly balanced out when Seb had shown up literally at his door. Catching up with him when he could between sorting through all the things he and Ailie had found the night of the attack had been taking up his time. Plus work at the clinic kept him busy.

“Have a friend staying in town, and work’s been keeping me busy,” he explained, “still getting to the gym in the mornings, evenings when I have to work. So it’s been good.” He nodded. He was about to make a smart remark about Wes’ new routine he had talked about when they had met up in the gym, but that train of thought was quick to be interrupted by quite the dramatic entrance.

The doors of the tavern burst open, drawing Rhys’ gaze toward the arrival of the LAPD and a young man barking out orders. Hands up and on your knees. Like fucking hell he was going to do any of the above. There were plenty of mutants in the bar that could have easily handled these guys, could have brought them to the ground to shut them up. But nothing happened. The only thing Rhys was left to assume was a Corinthian. Rhys knew it was inevitable, had prepared for this moment since he had gotten home from the assault on The Initiative’s facility. The Initiative came to collect, and they were packing heat.

“So much for a night on the town,” he muttered to Wes, getting up from his spot as a few agents advanced on them.

He had a comment on the tip of his tongue about wanting to go back to the gym together, if only to spot each other, but the doors to the bar opened and drew Wes’s attention. The first thing out of the man’s mouth was that everyone should get down and put their hands up. Other people filtered in behind him, guns drawn and he recognized Initiative when he saw it.

Swallowing thickly, he put his hands up as he was told, but Rhys stood as a couple of the agents started coming their way. He didn’t know if the man planned to fight them or not, but in Wes’s experience, if he did what he was told, chances were he’d get overlooked. Innocent bystander. He even recognized the man at the front, barking orders and maybe that man would recognize him, still play in to the fool card Wes had dealt him the first go around. 

“Hey, now,” Wes said as the agents approached them. His hands were raised, even as fights broke out around them. “We’re not doing anything. Right?” he directed the question towards Rhys, to see if he was going to fight or do as he was told. “We were just having a drink.” 

Perhaps that had been why he invited Wes for drinks. Making friends was what Rhys was all about. He was just a good guy like that, or something. So that was why he even went the extra mile to pay for the first round. It was just the way he was. He tried to get along with most people and it worked in his favor most of the time. Of course, he couldn’t be friends with everyone, and The Initiative were no friends of his.

“Guess so,” he replied with a smirk, taking a moment to look back over his shoulder around the tavern. “But hey, we managed to make it, anyway.” He chuckled and turned back toward the bar once the bartender arrived to take their orders. “Jameson on the rocks,” he said, sliding the money, plus a tip, to the bartender once Wes would order.

“Sounds like a plan” he replied with a grin. “So how’s life been treating you? Everything good?”

“Things are great, man,” Wes confirmed as they waited for their drinks to come. He wasn’t sure if Rhys knew what his business was, what he did for a living. It was always hit or miss with whether people approved or not. He wasn’t ashamed of it, made sure that it was done right and with as little danger to anyone involved as possible. There were a few bad seeds here and there, but he was also good at taking care of them. No second chances, no tolerance for people who slipped up in the way of respect or basic human decency. 

“Business is good, looking at relocating maybe at the end of the summer. Outgrown my shitty bachelor pad, you know?” he grinned, waggling his brow. And while he didn’t have a problem with where he lived, he thought it would be good to change up the scenery. Maybe look for something closer to the beach so he could enjoy what Los Angeles really had to offer. 

“What about you? Things going alright? Getting your morning workouts in?”

@wesley-cabot & @loreleixmatthews

It was hard for Rhys to get out of bed that morning. Not because he had a long night or anything was bothering him. He simply felt way too comfortable with Sebastian sleeping next to him. It sort of became a thing for them, long before their reunion a couple weeks back. Whenever something bothered Sebastian or if he just needed to be around, he would sleep next to Rhys. And Rhys was way too comfortable that morning, even considered just staying in bed all day. But he was part of The Syndicate; even on a Sunday when the clinic was closed, he still had an obligation to them.

So, reluctantly, Rhys had gotten himself out of bed that morning. The main concern was getting the files he had to The Looking Glass so Gwen could properly look them over. He had copies he brought to the Estate just in case, but Gwen wanted them at the club for her to pick up, so he had delivered them earlier that day when the place was quiet. The loud music never was his scene, but he went to the club occasionally.

After running a few other errands, he ended up at Left Blank. He had invited Wes for some drinks because, well, Rhys wanted to get to know the guy better. He was a friend of The Syndicate, and Rhys was keen on getting to know people within The Syndicate as well as allies of the group. He should have worked on that when he had first joined up, but he had a thing with getting too close to people when he first joined. Plus he had been on the road for so long, he was used to keeping people at a distance. Still, better late than never to reach out, right?

Rhys was the first to arrive at Left Blank and it certainly wasn’t as empty as he assumed it would be on a Sunday. Surprisingly enough, there were quite a few familiar faces, to which he greeted with a nod of his head or a quick “hey” as he passed them by to take a seat at the bar. He intended to meet up with Wes there, so his gaze would occasionally fall on the door of the tavern until he would show up. Once he did, Rhys would lean back in his seat and give a nod to the man to let him know where he was at. He already had his wallet out, ready to pay for both their drinks. He did invite the guy, after all.

“Hey man,” he greeted when Wes would arrive, “honestly, didn’t expect the place to be so busy tonight– usually it’s pretty quiet.” Not that it was going to alter his decision to still have some drinks. In fact, Rhys was a bit more relaxed knowing he was among friends. “First round’s on me.”

It never occurred to Wes that they could think he was a threat. Maybe because it never occurred to him to be one. Why would he? There’d be no reason. If their actions had brought about a stricter curfew and more police, it was nothing that truly bothered Wes. He had clients of his girls on police payroll, he had taken as many precautions with the law as he could in his business. It was just the whole mutant thing that was dangerous now, and that wasn’t something he went out advertising. Few in the Syndicate even knew what he was capable of. 

When he’d finally started talking to Rhys at the gym, he found the man to be pleasant. Liked his attitude, wasn’t even surprised that he was Syndicate because he’d seen the man in enough of their locales to take the guess that’s what group he belonged to. It was a bit surprising when he’d invited him out for drinks, but Wes wasn’t one to turn it down. Especially when he thought it in his best interest to get to know and enjoy as many Syndicate members as he could. In case one day someone asked him if he’d like to join again. 

“Hey man,” he greeted back, tipping his head back in greeting. He glanced around at the place and nodded. It was extremely busy. Too many familiar faces that he hadn’t expected, but he wasn’t complaining. “Yeah, we miss a party invitation or something?” he asked as he slid into the chair across from the man. When he offered to buy the first round, Wes broke out into a grin. “Hell, man, second one’s on me, then.”