All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach
Don't you ever tame your demons
But always keep them on a leash
- Hozier - Arsonist's Lullaby -
Jim woke up the next morning, and immediately wished he hadn't. There wasn't a thing left to him that didn't make his head scream. Sleep was a brief reprieve, a big absence of pain that he took whenever his head allowed him to. Something was very wrong with him, there was no denying that now. He just hoped they could fix it.
Sebastian entered a few minutes later. He'd gotten used to not knocking, and Jim seemed to have accepted it as well. "We have a car waiting, sir," he said quietly, walking over and holding out a pair of headphones. "These are sound cancelling. I wasn't sure if wearing them would make things better, or worse, but I figured it would be worth a shot."
"Hold onto them until the car at least," Jim sighed, unable to stomach the thought of riding the elevator looking so ridiculous. "Let's go. I do not want to drag this out."
He nodded in agreement, offering his employer a freshly pressed suit. "I'm not sure if you want to shave, sir, but you do look rather bedraggled."
Jim took it, giving him a dry look. "I can suss that out for myself, Sebastian, but thank you for the suit. I'm not going to shave. The sound of the motor gives me a headache." Everything did.
His nod was his only reaction, and he waited for his employer to change before heading for the door, pulling it open as quietly as possible.
The ride to the clinic was a nightmare of possible security issues, but Sebastian finally sighed in relief as they were shown into a private suite. He left two guards at the door and entered with his employer.
The process was infinitely irritating. Infinitely. From the gown to the stillness to the quiet beeping of a machine in the corner. It all frustrated him, all made him feel powerless and average, and it all gave him a headache. When they let him leave the machine and change back into his suit he just sat in the folding chair in the corner, head leaning back against the wall, eyes closed. Moran would deal with this.
Moran came in a few minutes later. He'd spoken to the doctors, and they had confirmed his suspicions. He didn't really think that Jim would be surprised, either.
"Sir, the results are back," he said quietly, closing the door behind him.
"It's to do with my regrettable action on top of St. Bart's, isn't it?" Jim sighed, opening his eyes to look wearily at Sebastian. "If it's a tumor I will be quite surprised."
"Correct with the first one, sir," he said, taking a seat and trying not to be angry at his employer. He'd been terrified and furious that day at St. Bart's, and here it was biting them in the ass again. "The scar tissue is tightening and compressing blood vessels. You're at risk of an aneurysm, among other things."
"I don't suppose there's anything that can be done about this," he stated, not bothering to get his hopes up. This was a nightmare. Of all the things to lose...
"Surgery could help, sir, but there are risks." He leaned his elbows on his knees. "It wouldn't be a simple procedure."
He was silent for a moment. "What's my other option? I can't work, can't even fucking think like this. And dying of an aneurysm... if I died of something so mundane... No... Surgery is the only option."
He nodded slightly, sitting back. "Then we'll start discussing those options with higher-level surgeons, not the poor sods here." He took a slow breath. "Permission to speak freely sir?"
"Granted," he said without hesitation. What did it matter, right now? Without Moran the network would have ground to a halt.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he asked, finally, after years of holding his tongue. There wasn't the anger he'd expected to accompany it, just calm, if weary, acceptance. "Was it really worth this? Was the damn game really worth potentially losing your mental capacity?
Jim gave a tired sigh, closing his eyes again. "You really want to know? I suppose you've earned the truth." He gave a mild shrug, trying not to second-guess himself. Thinking too much hurt. But then, everything did. "I wasn't meant to survive that. I could have faked a gunshot to the head. It would have hurt, but it could have been done. But I'd beaten him. And it had been so easy. I thought I'd found an equal, finally, and he turned out to be such a disappointment. I saw no reason to return to so much stale boredom. But... I am glad you kept me alive. I never did thank you for that." The truth was perhaps a little more complicated, but he couldn't expect Sebastian to understand such a thing. Sometimes not even he did.
He sighed, sitting back and reaching up to rub at his eyes tiredly. The idea that Jim had wanted to end that beautiful, fascinating mind of his... Was surprising to say the least. "You don't have to. It's my job to protect you, sir. Even from yourself, it seems."
"Don't ruin it, Sebastian," he said dryly, eyes still closed. "You've been doing rather well. I... appreciate your discretion during this past week."
He nodded just a little. "Of course, boss." He stood after a moment. "Unless you have any objections, I'll have the car brought around so we can get back to headquarters."
"No, I've no objections," Jim shook his head, and stood, letting out a long breath. If he was lucky, this pain would soon be soothed. Either by death or surgery, it seemed.
He nodded. "They've prescribed a more advanced painkiller. We can either stop for it on the way back, or I can go out again once we get there. What's your preference?" he asked, heading for the door but not exiting.
"Get it on the way. The sooner I can have it, the better. When we return, take over for the day. If I can work tomorrow, I will. But today..."
"Of course, sir," he said with a nod, walking back over to hand his employers the sound-proof headphones before returning to the hallway and pulling out his phone, calling the car.
He didn't put them on right away, waiting until they were in the back of the car to clear his throat. "I won't put Harrison on any more of the assignments that might kill her. But she has to make it through the ones already scheduled."
He took a slow breath, glancing over at his employer. "No offense, sir, but why? They're almost certainly bound to fail, there's a department full of capable staff. Not Harrison, no, but capable ..."
"Many reasons," he said coolly. "I do need those jobs done, and she gives good results almost exclusively. And..." he looked over at Moran, his eyebrows rising just slightly. "I want to see what it does to her, and in turn what it does to you. I'm a curious man, Sebastian. The two of you offered up a rare opportunity. My two highest-ranked employees, living together? And happily, it seems, judging by O'Hare's reports." He smirked just slightly. "I'm not trying to undermine whatever it is the two of you have, but, well... if either of you is going to snap, I rather you got it out of the way now."
He grit his teeth slightly at the mention of O'Hare, turning his eyes forward. "Of course, sir. Understood." It didn't mean he wasn't infuriated by the idea, and he knew Jim could read it off of him, but he kept his behavior neutral.
Jim put on his headphones after that, and that was the end of that discussion.
A few hours later, Lorna was in a tight dress and frankly painful heels at a small party. Well, her standards of large were probably bigger than most, but there were only a couple dozen people there at most. And she knew too many of them.
She thought most of them had no inkling of who she was, with the heavy makeup she had on, and her hair styled in a way that it was hard to see her face from the side. She was drinking champagne - there was nothing stronger being handed out - by herself in the library, looking at the books to satisfy her own curiosity when she heard footsteps behind her, and turned to see her host, a middle-aged man who she'd once stolen a flash drive full of government secrets from. "Mr. Jordan! I don't think I've had the opportunity to properly introduce myself. I'm Devin McKinley."
"Is that so? It's a pleasure, Ms. McKinley," he said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. "You know, it's funny, I could have sworn that your name was Ariel, but perhaps my memory is fading just a bit." He gave her a cool smile.
To her credit, her smile didn't fade at all. Her fingers did tighten their grip on her glass just a little. "Sorry, I don't think so. I just have one of those faces, you know?" she laughed, shrugging delicately. Open the door, asshole.
"Oh, no, it's you, I'm sure I just mistook the name. Tell me, did you enjoy Detroit? I felt like the weather was rather difficult that week." He took a few steps forward. "But then, it was stressful for me all around. Lost a valuable bit of data."
She stopped smiling so widely, gritting her teeth slightly. Okay, so she was going to have to force her way past him. "It wasn't so stressful when you fucked me behind that club, I bet," she replied icily, sipping once more from her champagne and then sitting the glass on the shelf behind her. "Don't make this hard."
"What are you planning to do, Devin?" he chuckles, walking forward. "Walk out into the crowd? I'll have you arrested in five minutes for espionage."
"You don't have proof of anything, Mr. Jordan," she stated, brushing her hair out of her face and wishing she had time to put it into some kind of ponytail. "I cannot be arrested without a speck of evidence to back you up. Even if I was, I couldn't be convicted. Don't do this. You will regret it."
"I do have evidence, actually," he smirked. "I'm a bit of a watcher, and I had set up a camera in a book before we went to it. It caught you taking the chip. My reputation is already destroyed, I've got nothing to lose. But I'd love to watch you burn with me." He reached out to grab her wrist.
Fear shot through her, Jordan turning into DeWitt before her. She didn't think, just reacted, twisting her wrist out of his grip and slamming the heel of her palm into his nose, immediately backing up, walking into the bookshelf hard enough to hurt, the champagne glass falling and shattering on the floor near her feet.
He let out a cry of pain, stumbling slightly and pressing his hands to his nose as blood started to stream down his face, disoriented. A moment later he looked up, eyes streaming but furious. "You little bitch," he snarled, lunging forward and grabbing onto her dress with bloodied hands.
She sucked in a harsh breath, the only sound she made as he yanked her forwards, her jaw clenched tight as she tried to make DeWitt turn back into Jordan, only shaking herself out of it when her back hit the bookshelf again and a lance of red-hot pain shot up her spine. It only took her a moment's fumbling, one hand curling into his shirt and the other going behind her to hike up her dress enough to grab her knife out of its thigh sheath. She stabbed him a moment later, shoving the blade up under his ribs with nothing but a quiet grunt, still struggling with the fear that was making her hands shake.
His eyes went wide for a moment, but he didn't even scream, just wilted in her grasp and slumped forward, weight pinning her against the shelves.
Still she was silent, just shoving him off taking a shuddering breath as he thumped to the floor. The hot blood on her hands felt like it was burning her skin. She had enough presence of mind to take the knife from his still-bleeding body before she turned for the window, shaking hard as she climbed out and lowered herself carefully into the alley.
An hour later she walked back into Sebastian's flat, barefoot and still stained with blood. She'd had to walk home - what public transit could she take, looking like this - and five minutes into the walk she'd just ditched her heels in a dumpster.
He heard the door open, and walked over- knife in hand- from the kitchen to make sure it was her. At ease with her, yes. At ease in general? The instant that happened was when he got killed. He froze when he saw her, eyes wide, and set the knife down, walking quickly over. "Is any of that yours?" he asked, noting that for the most part it was on her hands and in prints on her dress.
She looked down at herself, shaking her head just a little. "I don't think so," she replied quietly, only seeming to just realize her knife was still in her hand, and she slipped it back into its sheath, swallowing. "I couldn't grab anything when I left, but I had a look, and I think I can still write it down..."
He walked back into the kitchen and got a rag, a pencil, and a piece of paper. "Clean your hands and write everything down," he said, tossing her the rag. "Then we'll get you cleaned up."
She nodded, silent, and after she cleaned her hands spent the better part of twenty minutes writing down what she'd seen near-verbatim. She was a good grifter for several reasons. She was a good liar, she was beautiful, and she had excellent memory. When she was done she set the paper on the coffee table, and made herself drop the pen next to it. Was this what Moran felt when he saw O'Hare?
He was watching her carefully. "What happened?" he asked when she was finished. Her hands were shaking, and he knew if he felt them they would be cold with shock.
"Someone recognized me. I stole something from him last year, on a job. Cornered me, tried to grab me. He, uh..." she swallowed, trying to keep some measure of composure, "He started to look like DeWitt. I panicked, killed him, probably. I don't know."
He nodded just a little, reaching out to give her a hand up. "Come on, hot shower," he said, heading for the bathroom. He didn't need to ask what she meant by 'looking like DeWitt', He'd had his fair share of encounters like that with pseudo-O'Hares.
She followed him a little blankly, undressing a little unsteadily in the bathroom, hands struggling to do anything with dexterity. She made it into the shower before she broke down into tears.
He sighed, watching her, and kicked off his shoes, stepping into the water in his clothes, not wanting to make her feel like he was coming onto her as he reached out to pull her into a hug. "I know. It fucking sucks," he muttered.
For a brief moment she'd forgotten he was there, and had to fight down another surge of terror, and then leaned into him, muffling sobs into his soon soaking wet shirt. It took her some time to wind back down, and the water had started to be a little less hot. "I want to get out," she said, when she had her voice back, although she was still quiet, still shaken.
"Okay," he said quietly, turning to turn off the water and pulling back, stripping out of his soaked clothes down to his pants. He left them in the tub as he got out, passing her a towel and getting one for himself, drying off. "Come on, pajamas," he said, no room for argument as he headed into his room and walked over to the bureau where she kept her clothes, pulling out the shirt she'd stolen from him and some flannel pajama trousers and tossing them her way.
She caught them, but it was a near thing, and getting into them wordlessly before she crawled into bed, exhaustion seeping into her limbs at the last vestiges of adrenaline left her system. Suddenly, she was so relieved he was here, that she didn't have to go to sleep alone.
He changed into dry clothes and walked over to climb into bed next to her, leaving the light on for the moment. "You doing alright?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer for a moment, because she herself didn't know. "I don't know. I... I didn't think that anything like that would happen," she whispered, making eye contact with him despite how hard it was. "It was.. nothing like how it actually happened. I don't know why I just..." she shook her head, taking a deep breath.
"You were afraid," he said quietly. "Your brain made some connection and then it was like you were back there, and there was nothing you could do about it." He knew the feeling too well, had fought with it almost every day since he'd first seen O'Hare.
She nodded. "Yeah... Yeah, I know. I just don't understand why this time is so much harder," she shook her head, voice breaking slightly, eyes stinging.
He nods just a little. "Is there any way I can help?" he asks, watching her expression and body language for what visual clues he could find.
"No, you're already doing what I could have asked for," she murmured, finally unable to keep holding his gaze, shifting over to press up against him, burying her face in his chest. She couldn't bring herself to hate that he helped.
He held her tightly, shoving off annoyed requests about what the hell he was doing, comforting, for once she was settled and asleep. "You're okay," he said softly. "You're safe here."
She believed him. It was insane, how much she trusted him. That insanity did nothing to stop her from plummeting into sleep. Because that's what he was to her, safety. Even after he'd tried to kill her. But that could wait until she woke up.
Idiot. You are in far, far, far too deep. You've gone soft and one day soon, it is going to come back to haunt you. If not kill you.
He closed his eyes, turning the problem over, but the solution was obvious.
Living isn't the objective. Never was. Before, it was killing, tormenting, and those are still high on the list. Things have just shifted a little. Get over it.
He relaxed a little in that knowledge, and a few minutes later, he, too, was asleep, the lights still on.
She woke up with the weighted feeling she usually got after she'd had a good cry right before sleep. She didn't think too much about the previous night's events, deciding that it would be better if she just forgot it. This was one of those times she cursed how good her memory was. She shifted, rolling onto her back and letting out a slow breath. Sebastian was probably going to be a little withdrawn after all that. It seemed like his normal ego defense mechanism.
He woke when she rolled away, and rolled over onto his other side, pulling the blanket up over his head, determined to get five more minutes of sleep, as it seemed he'd actually managed to avoid nightmares for once.
After glancing at the clock and figuring she'd probably had enough sleep, she sat up and slid out of bed, heading into the bathroom to grab the knife she'd left in it last night. She washed it off and then returned it to the small dresser she'd claimed as her own, then slipped out of the room. She had the urge to clean.
He woke up a half hour later and padded into the bathroom, jumping into the shower and shaving. He emerged a few minutes later drying his hair off, glancing around and noting that things were a bit more organized than usual. "Go on a cleaning spree?"
She looked up from where she was dusting the back of the TV, stretched a bit to reach all the way. "...Maybe..."
He rolled his eyes, heading into the kitchen. "You want pancakes?" he asked, pulling a bowl out of the cabinet.
"Yeah, okay," she agreed, making herself set down the duster on top of the TV before her cleaning spree got out of hand. It was fine in her own apartment, but in his, it would be a little rude if she started reorganizing something like, say, his guns. She followed him into the kitchen, moving carefully. The man she'd killed last night had aggravated her back injury, and now it was going to take twice as long to heal.
He was mixing together ingredients when she came in. "What's on the agenda for today?"
"No jobs. Thank fucking god. I think I'll go down to the infirmary, see if they can give me something for my back. That asshole fucked it up further than it was already fucked."
He nodded a little at that, pouring a couple of scoops of batter into the pan. "Sounds like a plan. The next job is what... Friday?" He sighed, leaning against the counter. "News on that, by the way. Jim said he won't assign you to any more dangerous jobs, but you have to finish these."
"That's... not ideal," she sighed, and gave a helpless shrug, boosting herself onto the counter across the kitchen from him, trying to stay out of his way. "It's better than nothing, I guess, but, Christ, the ones at the end of the list... I don't know if I'm going to make it out in one piece."
"I know," he sighed, flipping the batch of pancakes over as they browned. "I'm still working on it. There are alternatives. I'll figure it out."
"I hope so," she shook her head. "I don't want a repeat of last night. I can't always be armed on those trips, not if I'm going to have to get out of my dress. If someone recognizes me on one of those, I'm just royally fucked."
"Do you know any hand-to-hand?" he asked, looking over at her. "If not, then we're running through it. A lot." He pulled a couple of pancakes off onto a plate and handed it to her. "I don't want to have to deal with restaffing while trying to fucking run things for Jim."
"Yeah, I do. Some of it is legit, some of it is street fighting. I'd rather we didn't practice until I'm not crippled, but knowing you, that's probably a stupid request," she chuckled, holding the plate one-handed and grabbing maple syrup out of the fridge before sitting.
"You're learning," he smirked, tossing her the butter from where he had it for the pan. "You might have to fight when you're injured. I'll show you stuff that won't aggravate it."
She caught it easily, an enormous improvement over last night, a smile on her face. "Alright, well, you're chief of staff, you can probably boot whoever's in the sparring room so we can have it to ourselves. By which I mean so they don't watch me fall over because I put too much weight on my bad leg, and so they don't have to bear witness to the inevitable sexual tension."
"Sounds like fun," he said, laughing and walking over with his own food. "It'll have to wait until tonight though. Jim's busy and I need to do most of his usual work."
She nodded, waiting until she was done with a mouthful of pancake to respond. "That's fine. Gives me time for the people down in the clinic to fuss over me. I bet they're real sick of seeing me."
"I'm sure they're thrilled to have made a friend. You're like their little test dummy," he said with a smirk, drowning his pancakes in syrup and starting to eat.
"I am the perfectly sized test dummy, thank you," she said, failing to keep a straight face, and then following his lead and seriously digging into her breakfast.
"Tiny," he muttered under his breath between bites, smirking. A few minutes later he stood, clearing his now-empty plate. "Alright. I'm going to go instill some fear and a little bit of shit-pants panic. Talk to you later."
She nodded, too busy eating to talk, and waved goodbye. Damn, he was acting... normal. Normal.
The rest of the day went pretty much the way it always did when Jim left him in charge. Just because he'd gone soft in the Lorna department didn't mean he'd lost any of his usual sadistic terrifying nature, and he relished the urge to exercise those particular muscles.
Lorna caught the tiny ripples caused by Sebastian somewhere in the building, where he was probably making tsunamis. It showed up in the emails her people sent her, and even the infirmary people were on edge. It was oddly calming for her. Everything was right in the world. Except Jim's conspicuous absence. Nearing the end of what she estimated to be his schedule, she sent him a text saying she'd meet him in the sparring room, got into clothes suitable for working out in, and headed on down. The space wasn't empty, but as soon as he showed up, it would be like a shark swimming through a school of fish.
He got her text, and smirked, the other hand lowering the man he'd been threatening back to the ground. He tucked his phone away. "Now, I have an appointment to keep, but I would seriously reconsider failing so spectacularly again," he said, turning for the door and heading downstairs to the sparring room. He opened the door, saw Lorna, and walked in her direction. Those around him stopped, as if waiting, and he relished it for a moment before calling, "Do be kind enough to close the door when you leave."
The room was empty in under thirty seconds.
"Fucking Christ, I love that," he smirked as he came up level with Lorna.
"It's pretty hilarious to watch when you're not one of the intended victims," she snickered, then gave his outfit a little scrutiny. "You really want to spar in a dress shirt? I mean, I'm assuming I'll get you on what I'm assuming are filthy mats at least once, but I have been wrong in the past.
He shrugged, walking over to the chairs by the wall and taking off his shirt, leaving him in an undershirt. "Fair point. Not expecting to do too much in the way of throws with your back like it is, but we'll see."
"With you and physical violence, I always have to assume the worst," she shrugged cheerfully. She liked sparring, even though her job usually didn't require hand-to-hand. And Sebastian was an actual challenge, unlike a lot of her coworkers. Kelly was too nervous to touch her, and anyone below him was hardly worth her time anyway.
He nodded in agreement, smirk in place. "Alright. You know these gigs. What's the most common come-on from one of these guys?"
"Violence-wise?" she snorted, raising her eyebrows. "Nothing fancy. Grabbing my wrists, usually, although I've had a few go straight for the throat."
He nodded a little, reaching out to get a firm grip on her wrist. "Alright, well, let's start slow then."
She nodded, though putting a little thought into it before she actually did it. She'd broken quite a few wrists getting out of holds like this, and she doubted he would really like it if she did it to him. So when she moved, she sacrificed damage for distance, twisting out of his grip and ending up on his flank. Not ideal, but better than putting him in a cast.
He nodded a little in agreement, turning to face her. "Enough to confuse an old fat man, I'm sure," he smirked, reaching out without warning to spin her around and pull her into a choke-hold, keeping the pressure just light enough that she could breath.
She reacted on instinct - she'd been in this position so many times - and after an instant of getting a good hold on him, challenging as that in and of itself was, leaned forward enough to pull him off balance. The rest was just gravity. He landed on his back on the mat a moment later, though her back was crying in the corner and asking why on earth had she done that.
He looked at her, a bit surprised by the throw, to be honest. "Okay... good... There's a much easier way to do that, though, that I'm going to teach you," he said, standing and dusting himself off a bit.
"Yeah, okay," she agreed, bending over with her hands on her knees. "Ugh. God, you're heavy. How much do you weigh?"
"About 240, last I checked," he said, shaking his head. "Didn't I say we weren't going to do throws? Did you hurt yourself more?" He pushed a hand through his short hair. "What did the infirmary say, by the way?"
"I didn't really think it through. Still a little wired from last night." She stood to stretch, raising up her hands and leaning backwards until there was a distinct popping noise. She groaned. "They told me not to stock any warehouses. Think I'm okay. I mean, I'm not sprained, just some nasty bruising. Hard to make it worse."
He nods a little, sighing. "Alright, listen. We're going to try this again, don't throw me," he said with a smirk, pulling her into a chokehold again. "Okay, listen. Turn your head to the side away from my arm, to the left, so your neck turns away from the pressure and you can breathe. Good. Now, grab my wrist and pull it down, and then twist out under it, towards my chest. Duck out. Should end with me in an elbow lock."
She was good at following directions, when she cared enough to listen. A moment later and she had him how he predicted, though she kept the force on his arm light enough not to strain his joint. "Okay, yeah. Easier. But is it more stylish?"
"Yes, because ending up leaning over like a hunchback of Notre Dame impersonator is incredibly stylish," he quipped, breaking her grip and straightening.
"I never said fashionable. There's a difference between style and fashion. You work with Jim, how do you not know that?" she smirked, taking a far enough step back that he couldn't just swoop forward and grab her. It was a pretty far step, considering his reach. This was enjoyable. Not dealing with life and death. "I assume you learned most of this in the army?"
"Quick and efficient," he said with a nod. "What else do you know, or do you want to know?"
She grimaced. "Honestly, I could probably stand to learn how to block hits. I'm more of the dodge kind of girl, but if I'm half lame, that's not an option. Try not to beat me to death, will you?"
He grinned, but nodded. "Sure. I'll keep that in mind."
Over the course of the next hour he taught her basic blocks and the best way to use them in the most common situations, as well as how to combine them with a fast return.
At the end of the hour, she was laying on the mat on the floor, a little sweaty and a lot sore. "Never mind what I said earlier. Absolutely no sexual tension. I don't think I'll ever experience it again in my life," she groaned dramatically, staring up at the ceiling. "You've left me a broken woman. I may never recover."
"Well that's a shame," he says, smirking and flopping down on the mat next to her. "Because I'm sure you're sore, and I was thinking the sore could perhaps be helped by drinks, a hot bath and a massage of some sort, but if you're not interested in sexual tension then we should probably just leave that be."
"Whoa, hey, let's not be hasty," she backpedaled, going for nervous and ending up just laughing. "But no, seriously, if you're joking I might have to kill you, or something similarly unpleasant. Make you wear wet socks or something."
"Oh god, not wet socks," he said, pretending to shudder. "I mean, I went through boot camp and the army, but god forbid I wear wet socks..." He smirked.
"I would say I would force you to eat spiderwebs - I did that to Kelly - but I don't think I'm physically capable of it," she chuckled, huffing as she pushed herself up and stood. "I'd lend you a hand but I might just fall over, so it might be redundant."
He hopped to his feet with minimal effort. "You need to do this more often. It'll be good for you," he winked. "Come on. You need to pack a bag. I need a night off and I haven't been to one of my old apartments in far too long."
She somehow looked even more excited. "Getting out of the office? Hell fucking yeah," she beamed, springing towards the door, a second wind powering her. She jabbed the button to the elevator and it dinged open, apparently already on their floor. "How many apartments do you have? I mean, you can give me a fake number if you want."
He laughed, stepping inside. "Six," he said, leaning against the wall, giving no indication of whether or not that was the actual number.
She smirked, hitting the button for their floor and not speaking until she was stepping out. "What am I bringing? Standard clothes? I wouldn't ask, but I'm a grifter, the wardrobe is always on my mind."
"Just bring a change of clothes, pajama, toothbrush. I'll grab whatever else we might need," he said, walking out as the doors opened and heading for the apartment.
She nodded, following him in and making for the bedroom. She had a small bag packed in three minutes. Of course, she organized her clothes so the things she would need in an emergency were all in the top drawer and the rest were actually properly sorted, so she had an advantage. She waited for him on the arm of the sofa, and was suddenly struck, again, by their situation. Fuck, were they a couple? The idea wasn't awful, but somehow she doubted Moran would want anything to do with labels. She would just keep that thought to herself.