Chapter Text
* There are some days, when he will simply open his eyes, feel sleep bleed out and the world bleed in, and know, without a shred of a doubt, that it’s going to be a shit one. Which sure, it might be that he finds himself right here, lying on his back, staring up at his boring ceiling in his boring apartment in his slightly less than boring life thinking this exactly fucking that more days than not, but that doesn’t change a damned thing. It’s going to be a shit day so, he might as well start getting it over with.
The sun pools indulgently over the wooden floor as Izzy sits up with a sigh. It’s warm, so he pops a window, ushering in the susurrus of the city twelve stories down. He doesn’t bother putting on clothes as he shuffles to the bathroom.
When the medicine cabinet shuts a forty-eight year old bastard who looks like he’s been hollowed out with a rusty spoon stares at him. Izzy glares back. The reflection wins. He opens the medicine cabinet and brushes his teeth like that.
The water pressure in the shower is still shit. Which doesn’t matter, certainly not enough for him to get someone up here to fix it; turn it up hot enough and you don’t notice as much anyways. The smell of the same soap he always uses fills up the bathroom as the steam billows: charcoal, a bit of pine, something like rosemary. Maybe. He doesn’t really care. They sell it on the corner and it helps him wake up. He turns his face directly into the water and waits for that part to work. Should probably try to jerk off. Might help him summon enough energy to handle this fucking day. Probably should. He doesn't.
The kitchen’s the same as always: simple, tidy, ordinary. Izzy makes his way to the fridge in his ankle socks, running shorts, and a plain gray t-shirt that says nothing and means nothing. He makes his little drink, the one he makes every day, the one that tastes like powdered grass and self-loathing. He leans on the counter as he swallows it back and waits for the coffee machine to heat up. He looks out into his apartment. He’s not sure why. It’s not like there’s anything to see. There’s no “decor” or pictures or fucking knick-knacks, just the same tall windows that look out into the same dingy city, the same balcony where his same old pack of cigarettes waits for him to come home each night. There’s no art on the walls of the apartment, just a TV that he only turns on when he can’t sleep, when he needs the sound of someone saying something to lull his brain to a stop.
On the coffee table his notebooks are stacked up neatly, the latest one still open next to his laptop where he’d been wrapping up the shareholder’s research last night, the research for today, for the event, for the client, for his boss, for his job.
It’s quiet here. Very quiet. That had been the whole fucking point, hadn’t it? That’s why he’d found this spot, nestled into midtown, populated with other corporate fuckers too busy or boring to any make noise. He’d wanted the quiet, he wants the quiet. Quiet’s good. Quiet’s better than having other people’s lives crowding up against his. Peaceful, that’s what it is. It’s peaceful, and not at all so fucking dull that sometimes he thinks he might just scream.
Izzy takes his phone out of his shorts. He holds it in his hand and waits until it hits 8AM exactly. He opens his texts.
He makes himself put the phone down rather than staring at it until he gets a reply. He taps his fingers against the granite of the counter.
The phone buzzes. He picks it back out.
Izzy frowns. He taps the keyboard quickly as the sun eases deeper into the kitchen.
Izzy lets out a crumpled sigh. He sips his fucking grass and certainly doesn’t think about the jacket he picked out, the one he’d spent fifteen minutes giving the dry cleaner instructions over. He takes a deep breath before typing again.
Izzy stares at the phone. The coffee maker gives a chipper little beep. Thank god. His mouth tastes like a golf course.
Then, after a moment:
Izzy puts his phone down. He kicks the rest of his drink back with a wince, rinses the glass out, pours himself a cup of coffee, and drains half of it so fast it doesn’t get the chance to burn on the way down.
This is fine. It’s going to be a shit day, sure, but it will be fine. He’ll finish his coffee, he’ll have a cigarette, he’ll go for a run, he’ll meet Edward, and he’ll do what he always does: he’ll do hisfucking job.
There was a time when he loved this part: the pitch, the parties, all the precious little details. It had felt different then. It had felt like winning. Or at least grazing his knuckles along something that might just be winning. It didn’t feel like that anymore.
He pads into his bedroom, the steam from his coffee catching in the morning light. He opens the closet. He looks inside. The tuxedo stares back at him.
He should have hung it up in the bathroom while he was in the shower, made sure any wrinkles got out of it. Doesn’t matter, he’ll find the iron and take a pass at it once he’s back. Not that it matters if it does have wrinkles. No one will be looking at him. That’s the point, isn’t it? He’s just details. Edward’s the pitch. Edward’s the one they’ll all be looking at.
Izzy shuts the closet.
He lights up on the balcony in his shorts and sneakers, letting the summer breeze carry the smoke away into the belly of the city.
It used to feel like winning. Maybe it still could. Maybe this time, if he does it right, if he can get out of his own head for thirty fucking seconds, maybe it will again.
He takes a long drag, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He lets his thumb trace idly over Edward’s last text.
Izzy clears the smoke out of his throat, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
Something’s looking at him. He feels it prickle along his spine. He glances to his right. There’s a pigeon standing on the empty balcony next to his. It’s staring at him, round orange eyes blinking back at his tired brown ones.
Izzy blows smoke out at it. “Fuck off.”
It doesn’t fuck off.
“Yeah,” he takes a sip of his coffee. “That’s about right.”
* There’s a bottle of whiskey on his side table. He knows it’s not strictly possible for a bottle of whiskey to frown at him, but for good measure James frowns back.
The judgemental bottle probably has something to do with the feeling in his head, the one that seems like his brain has decided it’s finally had just about enough and is relocating for good. It’s possible it also has something to do with the fact that he’s fallen asleep on top of his sheets in just a half unbuttoned dress shirt and his underpants.
The TV is still on across the room. It’s playing some sort of soap opera. There’s a woman emptying a bowl of punch on another woman’s head. There’s a man with a gun laughing. He’s dressed like a priest. James grimaces, finding the remote tangled in the blankets, making himself sit up enough to turn it off just as the man with the gun is hit with the empty punch bowl.
The shower helps. Moderately. James groans into the wall as the heat of it eases some of the soreness out where it lands between his shoulders. He lets his head rest on the coolness of the tiles, cracked window sending in a breeze that twists pleasantly around the steam, and does his best not to think about anything at all. He doesn’t want to remember why he started drinking. He doesn’t want to remember why he didn’t stop.
He makes himself drain a second cup of water as he dries hair that’s a dark enough red it almost goes black when it’s wet, setting the empty glass down on the bathroom counter with a muffled growl as soon as he’s done. He blinks up at the fogged mirror, suddenly and intensely grateful that he can’t see himself amidst the blur of the steam. Small blessings, all that bullshit.
There’s a sound in the kitchen.
James goes still, frowning at the reflection he can’t see.
There’s another sound. This one’s something like the coffee machine turning on.
He’s too hung over for this. At least burglars don’t tend to make coffee when they let themselves in. A sudden, jarring panic flares to life that he somehow, impossibly, actually got drunk enough to invite someone over. The thought lasts for exactly two wretched seconds before the rest of his brain laughs it into submission. The only thing worse than having to look at himself after he’s been drinking is knowing that someone else has to look back at him. There’s no whiskey in the world good enough to overpower that level of self-loathing. Which means, if he’s not being robbed, and he hasn’t broken reality by actually fucking in this apartment, just leaves... Shit.
James tugs on the clothes he blearily grabbed on his way into the bathroom, shoves the towel a few times through his hair, takes one deep breath, and heads into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Miranda says, smiling politely from the counter, a steaming mug in one of her perfectly manicured hands.
James glowers. “I’m taking back your keys.”
“Ah, one of those mornings,” she hums.
“One of those mornings,” he agrees, grabbing the bottle of pain-killers off the counter, a mug from the shelf, and pouring himself an exceptionally welcome cup of coffee.
Miranda watches him all the while, elbows resting on the counter, ankles crossed lightly where she’s perched on the stool. She looks like she’s on her way into her office, prim blouse and tidy jacket and perfect mauve heels.
She’s giving him a look. That Look. That’s fine. She can look all she fucking wants. He’s too hungover to care, which at least is one plus to the whole skull-feeling-like- it’s-been-cracked-in-half situation.
“Can see that the sweatpants are out again,” she notes. “You used to hate sweatpants, you know.”
“I hate a lot of things.” He pops the ibuprofen in, kicking it back with his coffee, belatedly realizing he’s grabbed the mug that reads Daddy’s Favorite Slugger. Fucking Jack. “I was working out.”
She doesn’t look like she’s buying it. He doesn’t blame her. “Have you tried the yoga place I suggested yet? I told you it was good.”
“And I told you yoga makes me want to commit fucking arson.”
There’s a furrow between her brows. James hates that furrow. He always wants it to go away and ends up making an ass out of himself when he tries.
“I’m worried about you,” Miranda says.
James scoffs, teeth flashing bright as he shakes his head. “Shocking.”
“Seriously James.”
He pulls the Life cereal down from the top shelf, emptying it into a bowl with a jingling little sound that feels far too chipper for his wretched mood. His shoulder’s still tight from where he pulled it and twinges as he puts the box back. He hopes she doesn’t notice.
“Nothing’s changed,” he says, looking for a bloody spoon.
“Exactly. Nothing has! That’s what I’m worried about. Look at you: you’re worn out! You’ve been worn out for years. I’m genuinely concerned this job might actually kill you one of these days.”
“All our jobs are killing us, Miranda,” he says, leaning back against the counter. “It’s called the clinical stress of living in capitalism, maybe you’ve heard of it?”
Her irritation is bleeding into a softer edged thing, one that almost looks like pity. It’s much worse. “James. It's been seven years.”
He glares. “Miranda. I know exactly how fucking long it’s been.”
“Just—” she sighs, bringing a hand to the bridge of her nose. “I actually think you may be getting worse.”
“Worse? ” James repeats from where he’s standing, hungover in his kitchen, wearing six-year-old sweatpants, and - ah... Christ - the Dolly Parton t-shirt Charles made him get in Vegas after the last conference. “I’m the same,” he insists. “Nothing’s changed. I am Coping.” He says it as clearly as he can for a forty-six year old man who’s realized he can’t open the fridge to get milk for his cereal without revealing that it contains nothing but a half empty bottle of rosé, two eggs, and a very sad jar of peanut butter.
Miranda squints. James glares back. He takes a defiant sip from Daddy’s Favorite Slugger .
She opens her mouth, hesitates, then says it. “I think you should call John.”
And great. Now he’s actually angry. “That,” James says after a moment, “is the worst fucking idea you’ve had yet.”
“He would want to hear from you, would want to know you’re doing alright–”
“No,” James says. “He wouldn't.” And it’s easy to say. It’s easy because it’s true.
Miranda gazes back at him with those beautiful eyes full of concern he doesn’t deserve. She looks like she might get up and try to do something like hug him. He’s very glad she doesn’t.
“John’s better off where he is,” James says. His voice is quieter now. He looks down into the void of his coffee. It’s a bit burnt. He hardly cares. “Both of them are.”
Miranda’s look goes hollow.
Shit . “I meant Madi,” he says quickly.
She doesn’t look convinced. He’s not entirely convinced either.
“I didn’t actually come here just to annoy you, you know?” she says, and suddenly she sounds so tired that he actually feels sorry.
“I know,” he manages. “I’m—” the apology sticks in the back of his throat. He swallows it down with another mouthful of coffee. “Just one of those nights. It’s alright, really. I’ll be alright.”
“Well,” she sighs. “I didn’t mean to go breaking up your morning.”
He gives her a smile, tries to make warm. “My very thrilling morning.”
She does smile at that, a familiar smile, one that used to come so often. He supposes maybe it still does, just not when he’s around.
“I do want to catch up,” she says. “Properly. If you’ve got some time, soon.”
He nods. “I’ll make some. There’s a new contract, new client—” She holds up her hand in protest. “I know, I know— don’t worry, I won’t. I know it’s boring as hell.”
“Boring isn’t exactly the word, more—”
“Predictable?”
She smiles thinly. “Yes. That’s more like it. Unfortunately.”
He takes her empty mug. “I’ll text. We can get dinner. I’ll try not to be too predictable.” He smiles and wonders if she believes him. He does mean it. Mostly. He will try. He knows he’s desperately lucky to still have her.
She adjusts her skirt as she stands, coming around the counter and he’s too hungover to try and avoid her. She doesn’t hug him, just presses in, and there’s nothing he can do but stand there, coffee clutched in his hands, as she pushes a strand of his damp hair back into place. She looks up at him, brown eyes so clear and so honest, like she still believes he can be something other than this, like she still hopes he can be more than miserable.
He wonders when she’ll finally give up. He wonders if it will be a relief. He wonders if it will break him in a place he didn’t know he still had.
Miranda’s hand lands, warm and soft, on the shoulder of the fucking Dolly Parton t-shirt. She gives him a squeeze. “You know, you’re allowed more. If you want it.”
“More of what?”
“Life. Everything. Anything. You’re allowed more than just being Alright.”
He makes himself take a sip of his coffee before the look in her eyes pulls something out of him he’s too hungover to stop. “I’ll take Alright,” he says. “I’ve had worse.”
She smiles weakly and then finally pulls away.
He promises again that he’ll text, and she promises again that she’ll make sure he does, and then she’s making her way out of his apartment and into a day that he hopes turns out significantly better than his.
James looks at the shut door and considers changing the locks for exactly forty seconds before giving the idea up and dragging his socked feet back towards the bedroom.
There’s a tuxedo on a chair by the window. James tries to remember the last time he wore a tuxedo. Has it been a year? More? He should have hung it up in the bathroom while he showered to make sure all the wrinkles got out. Doesn’t matter. He’ll get the ironing board out and give it a pass before he leaves to pick up Max and Anne. They’ll both look beautiful, and he’ll look… well, he’ll exist, and for now, for this client, that’ll be enough.
The sun creeps across the wooden floor of his apartment, forcing the day onto him whether he wants it or not. It’s a bright and clear early summer morning, still early enough that he could probably crawl right back into bed, fall asleep, and wake up in a few hours feeling an ounce more human.
James doesn’t go back to bed. He grabs the client files off his desk, makes more coffee, and reads in the living room until his head stops trying to divide on a molecular level.
Izzy hates this fucking cafe.
It’s all concrete floors and garage doors and ping-pong tables littered with jackasses. They’re always playing wretched music, something that sounds like two erotically inclined assembly cranes have started getting entangled with eachother. Not to mention how they make the drinks. It’s all tubes and contraptions, looking like that mouse-trap game he remembers from when he was a kid, all of which means it takes almost fifteen minutes to get him a single fucking black coffee.
Edward’s late. Well, not really. He’s always late, so it doesn’t really count as late any more, does it? If you’re late for fifteen years in a row that’s not late anymore. That’s its own sort of consistency. Izzy’s the one who keeps showing up on-time when he ought to know that on-time just means early. All he needs to do is show up late himself. Maybe he will, one of these days.
“Fuck me!” a voice sounds behind him and then Edward is rounding the table and filling up his world. Just like he always does. “What a night, huh?”
He drops into the shitty, bougie seat across from Izzy, long legs that end in his stupid fashionable sneakers instantly lolling out – one kicking into the walkway, the other extending fully under the table, close enough that if Izzy scooted his own, just a bit, just to the left, he’d touch him. He doesn’t scoot a bit to the left.
Edward takes off his amber-pink tinted sunglasses and grins from under the beard. His eyes glitter back at Izzy, seeming all that much brighter for the smudge of dark eyeshadow he’s got on. Not that he needs it. His eyes always glitter like that, like light off the ocean.
He’s wearing a plain black t-shirt today and plain black jeans and a plain black leather jacket and it’s simple, it ought to just be simple, but on Edward, it simply isn’t. At least five people nearby have started gawking; one woman in particular is looking at him like she’s witnessing some sort of fallen god.
“Right! So how about last night?” Edward asks, looking at Izzy expectantly for exactly half a second before his attention spins down to the drink Izzy got for him. An excited little sound spills out of him as he grabs for it. “What’d you get me?”
“That matcha shit. The one you got last time.”
“Oh, ew. No thanks,” Edward wrinkles his nose, pushing it away. “Done with that.”
Izzy tries extremely hard not to grind his teeth. “You liked it before.”
“Yeah, but that’s before. What’re they doing this week? Oh! Fuck me - that thing with the glitter, yeah? I’ll try that, you know, whenever you go back up.” He’s already wrapped his hand around the matcha bullshit again, pulling it close and taking a sip seemingly without even realizing.
“Last night what?” Izzy manages.
“Hm?”
“You said ‘how about last night’?”
“Did I— oh! Yeah, fuck! Pretty good time, yeah? Wild rooftop, with the lights and the emu and shit.”
“I left. Remember?” Izzy intones. “I told you you should leave too, get some sleep, what with the client party tonight and—”
“Oh yeah,” Edward makes a little pleased huff. “Well, you missed out. They broke the bottom of the pool. Party was shit actually, come to think of it. Conceptually great. Liked the emu. But shit people, you know. Again. Everyone’s always pretty shit.” He isn’t looking at Izzy anymore. “What’s with that?” He isn’t looking at much of anything.
“Tonight,” Izzy pushes them forward, doing his best to ignore the table towards the back with two fashionable bastards who keep looking between Edward and Izzy, talking with close and quiet little smiles and private laughs. “Should make sure we’ve got our details straight, that we’re on the same page and all that.”
“’Course we are.” Edward winks, knocking his leg against Izzy’s under the table for a moment. “Always are, aren’t we?”
Izzy looks at him with a blank expression. Edward sips on the drinks he seems to have forgotten he didn’t want.
“It’s a big client. Big contract. So, we should run it again,” Izzy continues. “Just to be safe”
“Fucking massive contract,” Edward notes. “Thank fuck. Honestly, been getting a bit bored out of my skull. Was at the party with that emu thinking insane shit, like what if I became an accountant or bought a sports team or something.”
Something twitchy and wretched slips around the back of Izzy’s gut. The last time Edward got bored they had to move their entire business from Hong Kong to Berlin. Izzy doesn’t want to move again. He’s got a nice apartment where the sun comes in in the morning that definitely, certainly isn’t too fucking quiet.
“It’s a huge firm, practically unlimited investment potential,” Izzy says, even though he knows Edward knows, because sometimes it feels like he forgets on purpose. “It’s a big shift, with the leadership change, but we still don’t know where they’ll land. This is a good chance, to test the waters, feel out the right pitch.”
Edward’s nodding along like he’s only half listening. “Should be interesting at least, yeah?”
Izzy tries not to sound like he’s doing his best not to bite through his own cheek. “It is, quite literally, a golden fucking opportunity.”
“Neat” Edward sips.
“Risky,” Izzy amends.
“Oh come on, Iz,” Edward rolls his eyes, taking another sip. “That’s what makes it so fun.”
The people at that table start whispering quicker. The music shifts from robotic arms fucking to robotic arms catching fire and dying.
Izzy does his best not to snap. “I mean, it’s going to be competitive. We won’t be the only ones looking to get a piece of this investment.”
“Course not.” Edward’s eyes land on him and suddenly they’re very sharp indeed. “But you’ll take care of all that, won’t you?”
“Yeah,” Izzy says, voice feeling a little hoarse. Must be this shitty mouse-trap coffee. “I’ll take care of that.”
Edward hums. “Who’d you think? The one with the electric helicopter bullshit or whatever it was last time?”
“Bridge. And yeah. Most likely.”
“Nasty little fuck. Out of his depth. Think he’d know better.”
“Some people never learn.”
“Who’s on call for the details team, then?” Edward asks, suddenly leaning forwards, legs tucked back under his chair, away from Izzy’s. “Gonna need the extra hands with a contract this big.”
“Lined up Ivan and Fang,” Izzy sips his coffee. It’s tastes of too many things all at once, like someone’s burnt a box full of dried flowers and sawdust. “They’ll fit this one I think.”
“Yeah, alright - been good on the last few.”
“They’re fine, with the right instruction. And the bigger gigs don’t scare them.”
“Good. Goodgoodgood.” Edward’s taken his phone out. His sneakered foot is tapping on concrete under his chair. He sets his cup down, it sounds empty already. “What’s ‘is name again?”
Izzy tries his best to not let his irritation slide into genuine annoyance. He knows this isn’t the point. He knows that when Edward needs to know the name he’ll know it perfectly, along with anything else he needs to get the contract. Because Edward’s good at this, because Edward’s better than anyone Izzy’s ever met. But the details matter too, and sometimes he thinks he might just be getting a bit sick of toting them around on his back until Edward decides he needs to pluck one out.
“Bonnet,” Izzy says.
“Bon Et,” Edward pronounces as he types. Then giggles, spinning his phone around so Izzy can see the image search results of frilly old hats. Izzy blinks. Edward pulls his phone back. “Bonnet what?”
“You won’t find anything,” Izzy tries. “No one knows who he is. He’s never been a general partner, or a limited partner, or any kind of fucking partner far as I can tell. In fact, up until now, if you told me he’d never seen a fucking investment portfolio fucking once in his fucking life, I’d buy it.”
Edward’s gazing at his phone. His brow has gone a bit furrowed, focused. “Interesting.” He snaps his fingers twice in Izzy’s general direction without looking up. “Come on. What’s the whole name?”
Izzy’s throat feels tight. The table behind them has stopped laughing. They’ve stopped talking at all. “Stede,” Izzy says. “Stede Bonnet.”
The backseat is too small. Which, in a car that (if James had to guess) cost more than a reasonable college education, makes perfect fucking sense, but doesn’t change the fact that he’s stuck in the sliver of leather absurdly called a passenger area trying to cheat his knees up into his chest and thinking that astronauts probably get more space than this to do their fucking jobs. Also, astronauts don’t have to worry about not ruining their tuxedos. Lucky bastards.
“Are we there yet?” he grumbles.
“Close!” Max chimes from the driver’s seat. She weaves around a double parked van, just making the light through 5th and 52nd before it changes.
“You shouldn’t be driving in those fucking shoes,” James glares at what he can see of her, which is mostly perfectly arranged dark hair and a glittering array of rings tapping merrily on the steering wheel.
“What crawled up your ass?” Anne asks. She’s leaned back in the passenger seat in her own dress, one that’s silken where Max’s glittering, an elegant green where Max’s is decadent yellow. She has one hand resting on Max’s bared thigh.
“Nothing,” James huffs, jamming against the seat and managing to get his knees in a place that’s still uncomfortable but not actively annoying.
“That much is obvious,” Max grins.
Anne chuckles lowly, squeezing Max’s thigh.
“Oh yes,” James rolls his eyes. “Very fucking funny. I’d just prefer to actually arrive without my brains all over the windscreen if at all possible.” He turns his attention outward to the city lights that catch through tinted windows as they curl through the streets. “Should have got a driver.”
“I like to drive. It’s fun. Something you could try once in a while, you know?” Max meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, make-up immaculate.
“Don’t think he’s ever had fun,” Anne notes idly. “Wouldn’t work. Not compatible with his systems. Like lactose intolerance or some shit.”
“Then I hope you’re ready to put on a good show,” Max says, that edge creeping into her voice. “Deals are about hope. Excitement, vivre. That’s what closes.”
“No,” James says. “It isn’t.”
Max twists around a taxi. It lays on the horn as they pass.
“Anyways,” James says. “I’m not making any deals tonight.”
Anne narrows her eyes. “Thought we talked about this. You’re the best fit for this client, yeah?”
“We didn’t talk about it, and we don’t know that,” James insists. “We frankly don’t know much of fucking anything.”
“Conneries ,” Max says, and there’s steel slipping into her voice now. “We’ve done our work. Good work. All of us. This is an incredible chance—”
“— One that we still don’t know enough about,” James pushes right back. “We know the firm, we know the partners, but we’re only here because of this, this... kid or whoever who’s stepping in. He’s made this opportunity, and he’s something we could stand to know a good deal more about.”
“Kid?” Anne asks. “Isn’t he like... forty?”
“He’s green,” James counters. “That’s just about the one thing we do know. He’s been nowhere else, nowhere we could find, and who fucking knows what that means.”
“It isn’t about him,” Max counters. “He’s one man. This is a dynasty. We shouldn’t narrow on one path just because it’s the one that’s kicking open the front door. We learn about him, of course, but there are other angles, other partners, and you’re the one who fits with them. Not Charles, not Jack, not me: you. That isn’t going to change.”
She’s right, for the most part, but he doesn’t need to say so, not yet. He tries to lean back in the deeply uncomfortable seat, adjusting the fit of the bowtie against his throat. “Maybe,” he allows. “But we can’t afford anything sloppy. We’re going to see what this Bonnet is about and we’ll take things from there.”
“That’s it? We’re not going to try and flush the competition?” Anne asks. “Then what the fuck am I here for? You think I’m comfortable? I have fucking tape on my tits over here.”
“We’re going to see what this Bonnet is about and tell Bridge to go fuck himself.” James corrects. “He’s a right piece of fucking work.”
Anne lets out a contented huff as she sits back into the passenger seat.
It’s quiet in the car for a moment. Outside the city flashes past. It’s slowing down, and the park is spanning dark and vast off to the left, they must be getting close.
“I still say we are missing a chance.”
“For fuck’s sake—” James groans.
“There’s no reason you can’t take the measure of this man and start inroads elsewhere,” Max pushes. “Anne and I will handle Bridge and whoever else is sniffing around. But with an opportunity this large we are fools to not do everything we can to fucking seize it.”
“Well if you think so, you’re more than welcome to try,” James rolls.
Max twists the wheel and slides neatly into a line of shining black town cars and limos. Valets are running eagerly back and forth, and beyond the cars, up ahead, waits a teeming mass of glittering bodies, bright lights, and flashing cameras.
Max turns, putting a hand behind Anne’s seat to look him in the face. “You know I’m right.”
“No,” he narrows. “I don’t.”
She holds his gaze for a long moment. James doesn’t blink. She turns away, unbuckling her seatbelt. “John would agree with me.”
Something cold and hard settles into his gut.
In front of him, Anne’s shoulders go tighter in her seat.
James opens his mouth.
The driver’s side door opens quite suddenly. “Good evening,” the valet beams. His expression falters for half a second as the energy in the car bleeds out the door and onto his shoes. “I— can I— I can park this, for you, uh, if you—”
* “Bien,” Max curls a smile up to him. James fairly dents his door trying to climb out. He offers Max a hand out as the valet shrinks out of the way. She takes it, catching his eye as she stands. There’s a glimmer of something there, something like regret, something like sadness, but the stubbornness is stronger, which, truth be told, is something he’ll never not love about her.
Max lets his hand go circling the car, and by the time she’s helping Anne out onto the carpet, green dress dripping down her legs as Max wraps a hand around her waist, there’s already half a dozen cameras flashing in their direction.
“Are you,” Izzy starts, “and I cannot emphasize this enough: fucking kidding me?”
The lobby outside of the ballroom is teeming with bodies: silken suits and sparkling jewelry and rustling gowns. The doors to the hotel are still thrown wide under the columns that line the front, hung with long white curtains and ringed by vases of lilies and tulips and blossoms. Outside is a cacophony of camera flashes and eager shouts and the distant hum of New York Traffic. Inside is the sound you always get when piles of obscenely rich people are gathered together: eager, controlled voices, the clicking of shoes on marble, the rustling of overpriced fabric.
Izzy’s been here, waiting, as waiters spin by with silver trays of sparkling cocktails and the social elite flutter past for the better part of half an hour while the crowd eases into the ballroom and finds seats and he’d been starting to genuinely worry, but now, well now...
“What?” Edward gives a little spin, looking down at himself. “Think it looks fab.”
Izzy brings a hand to the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. “I— what about the tux?”
“This is a tux.”
“The proper one. The one I got from the fucking cleaners this morning.”
“What? The boring one?”
Izzy stares. “The Givenchy.”
“Yeah. The boring one. Trust me,” Edward leans in and he smells like some new perfume, all dark cedar and jasmine. “This is better.”
And what the fuck is Izzy supposed to say? How is he supposed to explain that waltzing into a charity ball for an old money global equity firm wearing a leather tuxedo jacket with nothing underneath it besides his tattoos and his skin and his, his, well, his fucking everything, is not actually better. Ed’s got his hair up too, bound in a loose knot around the back and laced with little braids and these dark ribbons that skate through the tendrils of gray and the most fucked up part is it is actually working. It’s working with the silver-tipped black snakeskin boots and the rings and dangly earrings that match and the perfectly fucking tailored trousers. It is working so well no one can keep their eyes off of him. Which leaves Izzy, standing in a black tux, with a white shirt, and the black leather tie, all of which which he actually liked, all of which actually felt good when he checked his reflection before he grabbed his things and left, but now that he’s here and standing next to this and he feels like a fucking waiter which, to his bottomless irritation, is exactly the fucking point, isn’t it?
So yeah. It is working. And hates that he wishes it wasn’t.
“You look like an fucking croupier after a one-night stand,” Izzy grumbles
“Yeah,” Ed winks. “A good one.”
Someone comes past with a tray of champagne glasses. Edward nabs one easily. Just one.
“I think it’s a very Sales Friendly look,” Edward notes.
“We’re not here to sell,” Izzy reminds him. “We’re here to network in a firm, that need I fucking remind you, is very fucking established.”
“You mean Boring .” He sips his champagne.
“Yes!” Izzy hisses. “Yes, alright! I mean fucking boring. If we play if safe, if we do it right, we can—”
“This isn’t about Established though, is it?” Edward interrupts, like he’s barely even heard him. “It’s about Mr. Mysterious New Money Manager, Mr. No Pictures No Records Stede.”
“Right, who,” Izzy pushes, “we know nothing about! And swanning in looking like Cher on a fucking metal tour isn’t—”
“He’ll like it.” Edward says, like it’s just that simple, and it’s so fucking insane that Izzy can’t even summon a ready reply. “Look around,” Edward continues, sipping his drink, cocking his hip to one side in the tailored pants. “You’re the only one who doesn’t like it. Everyone else is eating this shit up. Which is good, because I’m on the menu, and you’re not. So, find Midge or whatever the fuck his name is—”
“Bridge,” Izzy manages weakly.
“—And do your part of the job. Because I’m already doing mine. And frankly, Iz, I’m winning.”
Izzy glares across the room for lack of anything better to do. He needs a drink fucking yesterday.
Edward takes another sip, glancing down at him. “Aren’t you supposed to wear a bowtie with that anyways?”
Izzy thinks if he holds his phone any tighter in his pocket it might actually crack. He wants quite badly to look pointedly at Edward’s cleavage, but that’s not a good idea for so very many reasons.
“I hate bowties,” Izzy croaks.
“Dunno,” Edward shrugs. “Think you’d wear one alright.” Izzy looks at him. “Oo!” Edward exclaims. He isn’t looking at Izzy. He’s looking at two women who just came in. “Check this out.”
One is a red-head in a long green number, the other a shorter woman with a million dollar smile and an ochre dress that’s half glitter half fur. There’s a man stoically following up behind them with a hand in one of his pockets. He has dark red hair and a nice ass.
“Now that’s a fucking dress,” Edward exclaims, nudging his champagne in the direction of the yellow one. “I should get a fucking dress like that. Maybe next time, eh?”
Off to their right, in the ballroom, he can hear the mic already picking up, the main event getting started as the crowds settle and gather. Izzy pulls his eyes away from the shoulders of the man across the room and turns away, trudging towards where he knows the front desk will be folded away in a corner.
“Where’re you going?” Edward calls.
Izzy snatches a glass from the nearest waiter before he can avoid him. “To do my fucking job.”
As soon as Max and Anne are settled at a table that gives Anne a good vantage point on the other sharks and Max enough glamor to glitter at, James makes a b-line for the bar nestled in the back corner. Which sure, maybe there’s something to be said for not getting a drink after the night he had, but he’s fairly sure anyone who says so would agree that if your oldest friend and one of your closest coworkers both bring up your ex within six hours of each other you’re allowed to get exactly as drunk as you want.
Christ... Ex isn’t even the right word is it? You had to have had some sort of Understanding in order to have an ex. Whatever he and John had had, understanding certainly wasn’t it. It was a lot more like whatever you’d get if you cracked understanding open, like breaking a bottle of red wine and leaving a stain behind that will never come out of the carpet. On the other hand, ex is exactly the right word, if you got rid of the majority of the meaning and just went by the face most people made when they said it that is.
James makes himself scan the crowd on his way to the bar: it’s a big turnout, which isn’t a surprise in the least, every member of Manhattan’s investment community and linked sectors eager to clap eyes on this enigmatic controlling interest partner. The room drones with money and power, chittering away under chandeliers the size of boats as the suit on the stage preaches earnings and capital and potential and it’s all sticking in his teeth more than usual.
The bartender seems exceptionally bored as James approaches and, for a moment, he feels a pang of jealousy that someone in this room has a job that allows them to simply stand and look at all these bastards, a job that doesn’t need to know their names or their jobs or their interests, a job that will end tonight and won’t require spending the next six months orbiting this unique brand of bullshit. But it is what it is, isn't it? Everyone hates their job in their own way, don’t they? It’s all part of the mundane horror of the modern condition.
“Whiskey. Neat,” he says as he steps up. The bartender pours and James hums his thanks, sliding him a twenty for a tip and leaning back against the bar.
Most of the general partners he expects are here, and the key limited partners as well, not to mention most of the investment old hats and shiny new up-and-comers, all scattered around the glittering, ghostly lily pads of dinner tables. Kensington is still up on the stage (it is in fact Kensington he can tell now), finishing his hyperbolic schtick, looking a little red in the face after talking for twenty minutes straight. Hume has his own table off to the left , taking in the crowd more than the rest of the speech: considering, calculating as ever. In prime position at a table towards the center is Badminton, looking for all the world with his two dates, dark red tuxedo, and aryan haircut like exactly the bastard he is. James is shocked that Bridge hasn’t cut his own hand off to get a seat at that table, but all the better for them.
The faces of these men sit exactly the way they always do: placid and satisfied. They look the way men like them always have, men content that they have made the world into something that spins and churns and dies just for them.
And James’ stomach twists suddenly, because Max is right: he is the best fit for this contract. Men like that, men like this, can look at him and feel obscenely confident that he’s made of the exact same stuff that they are. If he smiles right, if he bites his tongue, if he gives them back just what they want to see. Max is right, and the idea that he’ll have to spend even one night sat at one of those fucking tables is suddenly so abhorrent that he feels sick enough to drain the rest of his whiskey.
“You’re allowed more.” Miranda’s voice sounds in his head. “If you want it.”
James puts his glass down on the counter, nudging his head towards the bartender for a refill. More. What the fuck does that even mean? “More”? It’s easy for Miranda to say, isn’t it? She deserves more. Always has. When their lives shattered around them, she was the one who managed to pick up the pieces and make something new. It wasn’t his fault that she’d always been better at that. It was a skill he simply didn’t have, like laughing at jokes he didn’t think were funny, or fucking golf. It was a bright, persistent, powerful thing. What was it called again? Ah, right. Hope.
Hope seemed heavy. If he had hope he might feel worse about starting on his second glass of whiskey after his quarterly night of drinking himself into oblivion for reasons he can’t even remember. Likely there wasn’t even a reason, likely it was just another night of coming home, shutting the door behind him, and facing nothing but strategic notes and investment reports in an empty apartment that looks out on a city that has never felt like home.
Home. What an idiotic word. He even can’t remember the last time he felt like he was Home. Well, no, that’s not right is it? He can remember exactly when he last felt like he was home. That’s why he’s so sure he’ll never, ever feel like it again.
Someone steps up to the bar behind him, ordering something in a voice low enough that James can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter, up on the stage the simpering whelk is finally getting to the point.
“Now, as you know,” Kensington pronounces into the mic, smile fixed, “this event would not be possible without a truly outstanding donation to the cause on the part of our new general partner and leading shareholder.” Applause ripples through the crowd. Kensington waits until it peeters off before continuing. “Many of us, myself included, have spent most of our lives working with his father, who, as many of you know, we tragically lost six months ago.”
There’s a demure lull of silence. Funny, James thinks, considering how at least half this room would have ripped the cords out of old Ball-Breaker Bonnet’s heart pump themselves given half a chance.
“In his forty years of service, Edward Bonnet built this firm from a reputable niche organization into one of the most powerful private equity firms in the world, creating not only a foundational institution of global economic impact, but an engine of change and development for the communities of this city that surrounds us today. And so, I am hardly surprised that his first act as the inheritor of his father’s prestigious seat in this firm is one that is iconic of the Bonnet family’s legendary generosity.”
James can’t help huffing into his whiskey. This is getting interesting though, and quicker than he thought it might. There’s something in Kensington’s eyes, behind his waxen smile, something off, something uneasy. Scared, James realizes. He’s actually, genuinely afraid, and isn’t that interesting.
“And so, now that I have taken up more than enough of all of your highly billable time—” Polite titters of laughter roll through the crowd. James wants to fucking vomit. “I am more than honored to introduce to you all, to the man of the hour, the future of our firm: Mr. Stede Bonnet.”
Applause bursts to life all around them, bouncing off of white linen and crystal glasses and up into the ornate ceiling. James lets his eyes travel the room, tallying the genuine smiles and the forced ones, and—
His eyes narrow. He takes out his phone.
Across the room, Anne slips her phone out as the clapping continues. She looks towards the back, zeroing in on the man standing there: a man in his mid-thirties, blond hair slicked back into place, pale face clean shaven. He has a little dent in his chin and a sharp hunger in his eyes.
Anne leans close to Max, whispering something as she slips an arm around her waist. Max follows her gaze, letting it hang on the man by the door. She catches James’ eye across the room for just a moment before turning politely back to the stage, sliding a hand easily onto Anne’s leg.
“Good evening! Good evening!” a new voice chimes. “My! What a welcome!”
James drags his eyes back to the podium and can’t help the surprise that startles over him.
This isn’t what he was expecting. In fact, if he’d been taking bets (which he wasn’t, thank you very much Jack), this wouldn’t have cracked the top ten possibilities.
The man on the stage seems young even though he’s clearly not. He’s got a kind smile and a waft of strawberry blonde hair that looks like something out of Gone with the Wind and a tuxedo that is, honest to God, the color of a blue sky on a summer’s day. He’s wearing a lavender bowtie, and a gold brooch, and white leather shoes, and it’s insane but the most absurd thing of all is how it’s actually working for him.
“Goodness, what a welcome! That’s fine, all fine, thank you—” He’s waving hands decorated with a smattering of bright rings, trying to quiet the crowd with a genuine, friendly smile that is nonetheless mildly uneasy, as if he’s not really sure what they’re still applauding for. “Thank you, thank you. And thank you Walter for the lovely introduction.”
James almost chokes on his whiskey. Walter Kensington’s smile has gone so still it looks like it might startle and run for cover.
“But please,” the man at the podium continues with that bright, vaguely awkward tone. “Call me Stede. Mr. Bonnet was my— well I suppose you all know that was my father, don’t you?” He grins at the crowd, kicking off a ripple of polite laughter. ‘Stede’ beams. “And I hope you’ll believe me when I say that I sincerely can’t wait to get a chance to learn the names of everyone in this room!”
James leans back into the bar, rolling his whiskey under his nose. The man on the stage seems a bit nervous, but not afraid. It’s rather like someone walking into a party where they don’t know anyone else there, but are still holding a sparkling, defiant sort of courage, a courage that knows they soon will know quite a few people indeed.
“Now,” Stede continues, “I know none of you know me. You might be nervous! ‘Who is this guy? What’s he know about private equity investments?’ Well, the first thing I want to assure you, all of you, is that the primary thought on my mind as I take this position is… Legacy.”
Hm. Maybe not so unexpected then. James turns his eyes to the crowd. Several faces seem to relax.
“We all come into life with Legacy, don’t we. Rather if we like it or not quite frankly.” There it is again, that glittering strange thing under his eyes, the braver edging on discomfort. “Legacy follows us as soon as we step into this world and follows behind us every step of the way. My father was a great believer in Legacy, but I’m here tonight to tell you all: a Legacy is only as strong as its ability to be broken.”
Several glances pass around the room. A handful of people adjust slightly in their seats. James taps his finger on the side of his glass and takes another sip.
“If we are not brave enough, bold enough, to take the Legacy that surrounds us, break it into pieces, and forge it into something newer, something stronger, something better , then all we will be left with decades from now is a word, a word that bit by bit will erode into nothing but dust.”
On the stage behind him Walter Kensington’s smile has gone from forced to something closer to rigor mortis. He adjusts his hands where they’re knitted in front of him, eyes skating with barely contained horror over to the table of his fellow general partners.
“Change!” the man in the easter-egg tuxedo exclaims. “You cannot fear change! You’ve gotta open the doors right up and say ‘Hey there Change! Welcome to the party, glad you could make it. Make yourself at home! Just please use the coasters if you don’t mind, and leave your shoes by the door. What are those by the way? Parada? Very smart.’”
The glances flying around the room are increasing in speed and frequency. The man on the stage doesn’t seem to notice, swept away on his own words, the lights glinting golden off his hair, off the rings on his hands, off the brooch on his lapel.
“I mean sure, we all have money. Heaps of it. Oodles! But what is money really worth anyways? If it can’t change the world for the better, then what is it? Boring! Just boring old paper. Might as well not be real at all!”
James lowers his glass and stares at the stage.
“But we can make it good for something! We have the ability, the power, to change the world. We're all here because we work in Private Equity, but... what about Public Equality?”
“YEAH!” a voice suddenly shouts from the crowd. It’s easy to find the speaker. They’re leaning back and whistling between two fingers and wearing... is that a leather tuxedo jacket?
The man on the stage glows, newly empowered. “My father believed in growing money, and he was very good at it. I’m sure many of you in this room are very good at it too. But I ask you: what is the point of growing something if you don’t use it for a cause worthwhile?”
In his wildest dreams, James couldn’t have imagined this was going to be so unbelievably easy.
If Jack was here he’d be rushing the stage. Bridge must be practically drooling.
He lets himself glance in the direction of the blond man by the door. Max has made her way over, leaning her weight into him slightly as they watch the stage and chat, close and intimate. Anne sits at the table nearby with a small smile, watching patiently.
“I might not know much about money,” Stede continues, “couldn’t tell you the difference between a mutual and a hedge fund if I’m being honest—” someone towards the front chokes on their drink— “but I know people . The best investment is one made with a full heart and a good handshake. People, change, and fun! When’s the last time anyone got to have fun around here, eh? I know my father took this job quite seriously, but, as far as I’m concerned, if you can’t do something without at least a bit of a laugh, it’s not worth doing at all!”
A woman towards the front drops her glass. Stede Bonnet doesn’t seem to notice.
“I believe that together, we can turn Bridgetown Equities’ legacy into one that puts equality back into equity, the care back in capital, and above all the fun,” he punches his arm up into a little contained pump of victory, “right back into funds!”
“Jesus Christ,” James can’t help swearing. Which is odd, because he realizes, half a blink later, that someone quite close, at the exact same time, has said the exact same fucking thing.
He turns, following the sound to look to his left. There’s another man leaning on the bar a few feet away. A man holding a glass of red wine in a well fitted tuxedo who’s looking back at James with the exact same expression of mildly indignant surprise he feels on his own face.
He’s shorter than James. Just. A few inches at most. He’s got a little tattoo, like a small four pointed star, just under his left eye. Which is interesting. Which is unexpected. His dark hair’s pushed back, a style that’s practiced, confident - more precise than tidy, a contrast to the silver splashed stubble coming in around his short beard that’s rather similar to James’ own. It’s thick enough that James bets he has to shave twice a day if he really wants to keep it in check. Has to, but for this, hasn’t fucking bothered.
He’s wearing a well-made black tux, an actually fairly stylish black leather tie that’s thin enough it would be easy to wrap a hand around, good shoes that are less boring than he’d expected, and, quite possibly, the single most unimpressed expression James has ever seen on another human being.
It’s that expression that has him looking longer than he means to. There’s something about it, something like a challenge, something like calling a bluff, something about how it just gazes back. James has been told, on several occasions, that looking him in the eye isn’t the easiest thing to do. Jack once said looking him in the eye was like looking at the sun if the sun had the was also a father who was both mad and disappointed. But this miserable looking man with the good hair and the grabbable tie is looking at him. He’s looking directly back at him like he’s daring the sun to blink first.
“You’re damn right!” a voice suddenly calls in the crowd.
Whatever they’ve been holding between them snaps as they both turn. The man in the leather jacket is cheering again, raising a glass to the stage. James realizes he hasn’t been listening to whatever Bonnet’s been saying. He realizes he doesn’t care.
He glances towards the man at the bar again from the corner of his eye: he's watching the stage, looking impossibly more miserable than James felt just moments ago. James looks away but it’s hardly a second before he feels the man’s eyes slip onto him. James lets the quiet sit for one moment, two, then: “Tenner says he drops ‘paradigm’ within five minutes.”
The other man glances up. James sips his whiskey. He feels the other mans’ attention linger for a moment longer than it probably ought to.
“Double or nothing it’s ‘synergy’ in two,” the man says, in a voice that’s unexpectedly deep, somehow rolling and rasping at the same time
James feels a smirk steal up his cheeks. “Yeah alright.” He tilts his head a bit to the side to look at him again. “But, if he—”
“—SYNERGY!” the voice bubbles from the stage. “That’s the ticket - a whole new paradigm built from the collective, from our shared power, our shared synergy!”
Both of them groan in unison.
“Mine was first,” the man notes into his wine, and he really does have a fucking voice on him doesn't he? “Think that counts as a win.”
“Let’s not be generous.” James digs into his pocket for another twenty. “I don’t think anything about this counts as a fucking win.”
There’s a huff of a laugh, close and low, just like that voice. James holds out the twenty and the other man takes it. Their fingers touch when he does despite the fact that they absolutely do not need to.
James pulls his eyes away as the other man stashes the cash into the well-fitted pants. “I don’t know,” James notes. “Seeing ‘Walter’ look like he’s about to pop an artery is a nice side effect.”
“If this keeps going I think he’s going to just go for the throat,” the man sips.
“That’s a fight I’d take some odds on.”
“Now!” Stede Bonnet beams from the stage. “The fun is going to start sooner than later! They told me there wasn’t going to be dancing tonight, but I’ve let them know what I think about that. So come on, finish up! And let’s get these tables out of the way so we can cut a proper rug!”
James swears. The man next to him makes a sound like someone’s told him his dog is dying of cancer.
“Just when I thought this room could get any more fucking obnoxious,” the man mutters into his wine.
“Look on the bright side,” James notes dryly. “Maybe the exercise will kill some of them.”
The man’s attention locks onto him and James realizes quite suddenly what just came out of his mouth but then the other man is grinning and it’s sharp and crooked and so very, oddly interesting.
“It’s Izzy, by the way,” he says, raising his glass. “And I’ll drink to that.”
James looks at him. He clinks his glass into his. “James.” He tips some whiskey back and turns back to the crowd. “Cheers.” And huh. He’s just said that. Hasn’t he?
The other man’s attention rests on him, sharp and curious and focused, like there’s something in James he’s trying to unwind, before eventually drifting back to the crowd, to where Bonnet’s calling on people from the crowd and asking their names.
“They hate him,” the man next to him notes. “All of them. But won’t let it stop them from licking his boots.”
“Nothing the world loves more than an idiot with money,” James notes.
“Pathetic.”
“Utterly.”
Something very odd is happening here. He can’t keep this tug of a smile off his mouth. He can’t stop looking at how the man’s eyes are catching on the tug of a smile on his mouth.
The dare in the other man’s gaze feels like it’s growing, sharpening, like it’s bleeding closer to the surface, to somewhere James can grab it by the collar and shove it into a wall. And that’s exactly what he fucking wants, isn’t it? It’s so clear suddenly it’s shocking. He wants to make him laugh again. He wants to taste it. He wants to take that dare and melt all that sneering disdain into something lost and panting and dazzled and–
“There!” Bonnet’s voice calls. “Just clear those tables out of the way and— ” There’s a crash. “Oops. Ah well. Who needs another swan ice sculpture anyways, am I right? Buttons, if you could just—”
James’ heart is suddenly beating harder than he’s ready for. He’s got to get a grip, got to pull this back before he does something deeply stupid. Like tell him his name. Shit.
“What a fucking waste,” the man next to him mutter into his wine, and is James imaging the flush that’s sitting high on his cheeks? Probably. It’s dark in here and he is, quite possibly, slightly drunk. “All these ponces,” he continues in that voice, the one that James really wishes would stop doing a very specific thing it’s doing to his dick. “Waste of my time.”
“That right? Then why’re you still here?” James shoots, clinging to indifference for dear life.
“Why? Got a better idea?”
The face that blinks back at him looks almost as surprised as James feels. As if he hasn’t meant to say it, as if it’s just fallen out of him and there’s nothing he can do about that now.
James holds his gaze. “I might.”
The other man’s mouth starts to open.
James’ pocket buzzes.
He tears his eyes away, swearing softly and pawing for his phone. The other man falls back into his wine with a furtive eye-roll and some mumbled words James can’t hear that seem equal parts annoyed with the world and himself.
James pulls out his phone.
He just manages to get the thumbs up on the message.
James puts his phone back into his pocket. Puts. Doesn’t shove or fumble or jam because this is fine and he is fine. He’s just talking to a man in a bar. People do that every single fucking day and it doesn’t matter that it just happens to be something he hasn't done in literal years. He’s just had a shit day on top of a shit night at the end of a shit year so it’s fine that there’s tremors dancing all under his skin as he glances at this furious little man with his exceptionally pinnable little wrists and his deeply interesting little frowns and—
“I’ve got to go,” the man says.
“What?”
The man next to him grimaces, kicking back his wine with one toss and clinking it down onto the bar. He isn’t looking at James. His jaw suddenly seems very tight.
“Ah, well,” James manages to make himself sound mild, forcing his eyes back to the crowd. “Lucky you.”
Stede Bonnet’s jumped off the stage and is doing some sort of puppet routine with the severed ice swan’s head. People are clapping and waving and Kensington looks like he might genuinely be ill.
“It’s been–” the voice next to him manages. James looks back. The other man is looking up at him. There’s something raw there, something miserable but buttoned up, held back with a grim, tired determination. It’s an expression James unfortunately knows extremely well. The man pulls his eyes away. “Whatever. Enjoy the fucking circus.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
And there’s that look again, like he’s desperate for some sort of excuse but knows all too well he won’t find one. “See you.” The man sticks out a hand.
James looks at it for a moment, then he takes his hand. He doesn’t shake it, just holds on: firm and warm and solid.
Sharp eyes cling to his for one moment, then another, and then they’re gone, the hand falling away from his quick and definite as the other man turns, vanishing into the darkness beyond the ballroom.
* Izzy nearly knocks a waiter over on his way to the elevator and couldn’t care fucking less. He jams the up button, foot tapping quickly in the sharp toe of his shined shoes, wrist flicking his sleeve back to check his watch. He’s running behind. Late. Two minutes. It’s hardly anything. It won’t actually matter, but he’s late all the same. He’s never late. Fucking idiot.
The elevator dings and he shoves inside the blessedly empty space, snapping the right floor. The doors shut behind him and he’s left glaring at his own reflection.
“Got a better idea?”
What the fuck ? What was he thinking!? What had even happened in the last fifteen minutes of his life? He can’t even remember, it’s all just a tumult of very bright and very clever green eyes, of freckles on wrists and white teeth and a smile sharp as a fucking knife.
“Fuck.” Izzy swears at the buttons that light up one after the other as the elevator climbs. “Fucking stupid, stupid—”
Flirting? Is that honestly what he’s spent his fucking night doing? He didn’t even know he could flirt. He’s a forty-fucking-eight-year-old miserable bastard. He doesn’t flirts, just wanks off angrily so he can fall asleep before midnight and accidentally stumbles into mildly disappointing sex when he truly can’t stand the taste of his own misery any longer. He doesn’t flirt, and he doesn’t do it well, and he doesn’t wind up getting drinks at a bar with a smart-ass who’s frankly so good-looking it’s mean. A smart ass who was smiling at him, and laughing with him, and looking back at him like impossibly, insanely, he wants to fuck Izzy apart.
The elevator doors open. Izzy pushes out, shoving his way over the chic hotel carpet, past the classy beige doors, scanning for the number he’s looking for.
It doesn’t matter if he was flirting with him. It doesn’t matter if Izzy was flirting back. It’s over now. It’s over and Izzy is going to find this room and do his job and go home to his too fucking quiet apartment and his too fucking boring bedroom and it doesn’t fucking matter if there’s an sinking thing behind his ribs that he thinks might just be regret. It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to let that grin pin him against a wall and work those freckled hands up under his shirt or wrap solid and easy around his dick and God he needs to stop thinking about this right fucking now—
Izzy turns a corner and he’s there, the right number on the right door staring back at him. Izzy makes himself listen. There’s movement, soft but present, hidden on the other side, and that’s good enough.
He takes a deep breath. It’s fine. He just has to do his job, do his job while Ed’s doing his, and then he can go home, have a smoke, jack off as he imagines licking the taste of whiskey out of someone’s mouth, and forget this night every happened.
God he wants a fucking smoke.
Izzy pulls out the keycard he bought off the kid at the front desk, swipes it, and pushes the door open. He steps inside, steps muffled on the lush carpeting. It’s a nice room, which of course it fucking is, which is especially annoying at the moment for some reason. Izzy steps confidently towards the steps he hears in the bedroom.
“Evening,” he says as he turns the corner.
Bridge gives a startled yelp. His obnoxious blond head jerks upright, startling some of his slicked back hair out of place. He drops a box of condoms that spills out over the floor. Izzy raises an eyebrow, letting his tongue catch on the sharp edge of a tooth. “Huh.”
“I—” Bridge starts. “I’m sorry— I— what the fuck ?”
“Planning on a fun night?” Izzy asks, eyeing the floor. “Seems about right, since you’re doing your best to fuck the majority of those idiots down there.”
“...Hands?” Bridge manages, the initial surprise bleeding into something else.
Izzy’s slipped his hands into his pockets, stepping casually into the room. “You’ve been a busy boy, Daniel. Surprised you didn’t think we’d notice.”
“Look,” Bridge swallows, taking a step back as Izzy takes a step closer. “I know why you’re here.”
“Oo psychic too, eh? So talented.”
“I know we’re after the same thing,” Bridge pushes, doing his best to get the confidence of a proper bastard back into his voice. “You can’t blame me, can you? The investments this firm can make, it’s the chance of a fucking lifetime.”
“Golden opportunity,” Izzy grins.
“Yes! Yes exactly. But I’m not— look: I know you. I know who... I know who you work for. I don’t want to get in his way.”
The back of Bridge’s knees have hit the bed frame. He’s stopped walking. Izzy hasn’t. “Have you?”
“You’re not the only ones, you know that, don’t you? It’s not just you, and it’s not just me there’s bigger players here after the same prize. And when I say big, I mean fucking colossal.”
“Mm,” Izzy notes. He comes to a stop. His toes are less than a foot from Bridge’s. “And that’s something I’m sure you can help with.”
Bridge gives him a thoroughly slimy smile. “What can I say? I’m an opportunist.”
Izzy smiles wider. “You’re a snake.”
“Now hold on—”
Izzy just looks at him. “Yeah? For what?”
“A man like your boss... a man with skills like that when combined with my portfolio, with the insights I have. With a collaboration like that we couldn't be beaten. We could make this the partnership of a fucking lifetime.”
Izzy narrows his eyes. “He doesn’t do partnerships.”
Bridge has started to sweat. “I’m not bluffing, you know, about the others. They’re serious. You won’t see them coming. You need me.”
“Yeah.” Izzy looks him up and down. “Pass.”
He tugs the pistol out of his jacket and shoots Bridge through the head.
The silencer catches the sound with a muffled pop. Bridge blinks, tips, falls, and slams his right into the edge of the bed frame.
A spurt of blood hits Izzy square in the chest.
“What the— oh are you fucking kidding ?” Izzy swears, tossing his hands out to his sides only to let them drop again. “Of all the fucking...”
Izzy sighs, pushing his hair back into place as he pulls out his phone.
He pockets the phone again, giving the body a kick. “Vengeful bastard.”
Izzy turns to face the mirror across the room. There’s four bright red dots of blood trailed across the white of his shirt.
“Fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck —” He shrugs his jacket off, tugging the tie loose, unbuttoning the shirt. He wraps the gun in the shirt and tucks it under the bed. Should probably chuck the tie too but fuck that, he likes this tie. He balls it up, popping it into his pocket, getting the jacket back on over his v-neck tee. He turns to the mirror again. It’s not exactly dress-code, but if Edward can walk around with his tits out it’ll do fucking fine.
Izzy turns towards the door, pushing his hair back into place as he takes his phone out again.
Izzy stares at his phone for a moment before pocketing it with a muffled “fuck...” and heading for the door.
He checks quickly before leaving, the hall is empty except for a group of young giggling woman moving away from him back towards the elevators which he’ll fucking take. He steps out, shuts the door behind him, and buttons his jacket over his t-shirt as he quickly steps away.
Izzy follows the women all the way back to the elevator, their laughter filling the hallway, making it easy for him to go unnoticed as he pulls his phone from his pocket.
The women giggle and chat as they hit the button for the elevator. Izzy waits behind them.
Izzy stares at his phone.
Three dots appear for a moment. Then disappear.
The elevator doors open. The women start to shove inside.
Still no reply. Izzy shoves his phone in his pocket, following them in. A woman in a green dress with red hair pushes past him on her way out, her eyes catching on him for just a moment.
Izzy eases into a corner by the closing door. He takes his phone out again. Nothing. Something starts to spark in the back of his chest. Something that feels a bit like all that regret might be starting to catch fire.
The elevator doors slide closed.
James tugs his bowtie off as he waits for the bartender to refill the last of his whiskey. He thumbs the top button of his shirt open, not giving a single fuck if he looks put together or not anymore. Disappointment is sitting odd and uncomfortable in his stomach which doesn’t make a single bit of sense. Stede Bonnet couldn’t be a better target if they asked for one, and Anne was dealing with Bridge right now. Overall, the night was a riotous success, they’ve gotten everything they needed out of it. That’s what really matters, isn’t it? Who the fuck cares if he feels like somehow he hasn’t gotten what he wanted. That’s never mattered before, why would it start now?
He picks up the fresh whiskey, settling back with a grim determination to finish it, flag a cab, and get back to his apartment before the night can tangle up even more in his head.
His phone buzzes. He pulls it out.
James frowns.
He considers for a moment before typing.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. His phone rings.
He picks it up.
“Am I fucking sure?!” Anne hisses into the speaker.
“Yes then?” he notes mildly.
“This is fucked,” she mutters. He can hear her pacing. “Who’d you think? One of Hume’s bloody goons?”
“Maybe.” James shrugs into his whiskey. “He was a right shit, could be anyone. Doesn’t matter. Not our problem now.”
“Yeah, no,” he hears her sniff. “’Suppose not... What now then?”
“Leave him. We’re not cleaning up someone else’s mess.” He takes a sip of whiskey. “Whoever it was just saved you some time.”
He lets his eyes travel across the floor. Stede Bonnet has cleared out a dance floor, a DJ in a purple jacket has appeared from nowhere, and quite a number of people are dancing like injured flightless birds.
Over to one side there’s a man chatting with Stede, a man with one of the top irritating hairstyles James has ever seen. It’s the idiot with the leather jacket, which James now realizes has nothing but tattoos underneath it, but Bonnet for his part seems fascinated , which, if that’s all it takes, running this scam is going to be even easier than he thought.
“You two should go,” he says into the phone. “I’ll find my own way home. We’ll debrief tomorrow.”
“Fine. Fuck me, christ...” The line goes dead. James pockets his cell.
Across the room the Bonnet is still chatting with the man who, if James had to guess, is either a musician, a sports drink entrepreneur, or some horrific combination of them both. They’re talking and laughing like they’ve known each other for years. The other man plucks at the edge of Stede’s coat and then Stede’s shrugging it off and there’s a few cheers from nearby as the other man, like it’s nothing, like this is a perfectly normal thing to do, strips off his own jacket, baring his chest as he hands the jacket to Bonnet who hurries to hand him his.
“Hey,” a gruff voice suddenly sounds to his right.
James turns, unable to keep the surprise off his face as he stares down.
“The fuck happened to you?” James asks, having a decidedly hard time not looking at the dip of his v-neck and the – yeah, alright – generous amount of chest hair filling the space there.
“Spilled my drink,” the man grunts, “doesn’t fucking matter,” and then he’s stepping closer, and before James knows what’s happening he’s taking James’ whiskey out of his hand, locking his eyes on his, and draining it in one. *
He slams the empty glass back on the table with a little hiss. “Fuck this shit.” He hasn’t stepped back. He cocks his head up as he looks back at him, like it’s easy to look back at him, like he’s daring the sun to blink first. “Let’s go.”
James is smiling. When did he start smiling? “Yeah.” He looks back at that glare that hits like a challenge. He realizes, quietly, dizzily, that it’s been quite a while since he’s had a proper fucking challenge. “Let’s go.”