What Constantine would remember most about him was his face. Nevermind the way he sat, or how his clothes looked. He had assumed a posture of indifference, though intently listening, occasionaly shifting positions, speaking of his eagerness or his boredom. The clothes were a typical thief's: greys, black, other dark, shade colors. But the face; it spoke so much of a person. Garrett's own, now uncowled, was a thin one, marred by lines of strees and cynicism. His ears stuck slightly out from his head, and the close-cropped hair made them look as if they protruded more than they really did.

But more than just the face, the eyes of a person told volumes. Garrett's were naturally large, though now they were squinted in thought and wariness as Constantine spoke. They were luminous, blue-grey, and stood above prominent cheek bones, and a long, pointed nose, though it didn't make him seem rat-like, but more worn.

Premature creases had etched and furrowed their way on his rather young face, making him seem more careworn than wont. All in all, it was not a bad face, but he had heard from guards who had glimpsed his face had hinted it could seem younger or older than was guessed.

What was more, his baggy clothes did not conceal his thin, athletic form, which could be as still as shadows or tense and nerves thrumming. His hands, concealed by gloves were thin, enclosing long slender fingers, the best friend to a pick-lock.

But Constantine stopped his penetrating stares when Garrett was looking just as hard at him.

Constantine gave one of his disarming smiles, and handed the shot glass to Garrett, who had just made a remark on Contastine's employing habits. If he had taken some of his own advice, he would have looked down at his glass to notice the content's phosphorecence.

As the deal moved on, Garrett changed his posture three more times, listened to Contantine's sugar layed flattery, and downed the glass. After Constantine made sure hed had succored Garrett into a semi-trustung state, he let him go.

The thief stood, an exact height with Constantine, and sealed the deal with a handshake of Constantine's old, wrinkled, firm hand, giving him one of his own and an emphatic pump, while listening to Contantine shove his sword into Garrett's mercies.

Was it just him, or had Constantine's eyes narrow with a not-too benevolent smile within its wrinkled, paunched face?

In any case, as he walked down the street, pulling his arms over his stomach, he was getting one hell of a stomach ache.