She was back in twenty minutes, eyes and lips done to perfection (she'd never had to use skin makeup a day in her life, which she thanked god for), a black dress thrown over her shoulder, a bottle of tequila in her hand. She stopped in front of Sebastian and handed it to him. "Drink. Neither of us is going to get through this if you don't have something that will take your mind off the shittiness of it," she murmured, then turned and headed for the stairs again, filled with a nervous energy. "Get into something black!"
He took the bottle in hand, considering it, before opening it and tipping it back, taking a long swig.
A very long swig.
She was back in another whirlwind in five minutes, dropping a small stack of clothes in his lap and whisking off into the kitchen, now fully dressed herself in her black dress and bright red pumps. "Please tell me we've still got those leftovers from the other night? It was fantastic and she can find that out for herself, but we're not cooking something fresh for that harpy if we can help it."
"The salmon?" he asked, setting aside the much-lightened bottle of tequila and pulling off his current shirt. "Yeah. I made far too much. We have plenty."
"Good," she muttered, wandering back into the living room and taking the tequila, draining it the rest of the way. "I don't suppose we've got anything inconveniently toxic lying around? Not enough to kill her, just to confine her to a bathroom for a few days."
"We could rub some raw chicken on her plate and hope," he suggested as he buttoned his shirt.
"Mm," she grunted through a mouthful of booze, "Alternatively, we could see how much we can possibly spit in her food before it's noticeable."
"Why not both?" he suggested, standing to step into his trousers.
"Seems to be a waste of chicken," she snorted, setting down the empty tequila bottle on the coffee table, in plain sight. She didn't care if Sara knew they were drinking. All she cared about was appearing altogether above Sara.
He straightened his shirt, and pulled on his suit jacket, quiet for a few minutes. "We can't be too difficult. We're under orders."
"Welcome to the world of politics and women, then. You're about to get a crash course of bitchiness and backhanded compliments," she muttered, lifting a hand to very, very carefully itch her eye. "I think she knows better than to complain about a little sass to James Moriarty, don't you?"
"Hopefully. He needs her. That makes her special." He took a slow breath. The tequila he'd shotgunned was starting to hit him, and he forced himself to relax. A finger slipped under his shirtcuff to trace the tail end of a word.
She stepped forward to straighten the collar of his shirt, even though it didn't really need doing. "Anything he needs from her could be just as easily accomplished with anyone else. It's not hard to fabricate a blackmail-able scenario," she hummed, letting her hands fall, one of them slipping into his, thumb trailing over the back of his hand. "You can let me do the talking if you want."
He frowned at her. "I can handle myself," he retorted. "I've dealt with unpleasant dinners before."
"Okay," she shrugged, "Just thought I'd ask. I hear it's the polite thing to do."
He slowly dropped the scowl, taking a slow, quiet breath before he dropped her hand and headed for the cellar. "I'll find wine."
She sank down onto the sofa, running a hand through her hair with a sigh, and reaching for the empty tequila bottle. She shook it once to make sure there was nothing left and set it down again, frowning.
He walked down into the cool blackness of the cellar, and immediately regretted it. The damp, earthy smell, the darkness, the way the chill burrowed under his skin... His fingers found his words again, quickly- (somewhere there had been the rip of fabric, he didn't care)- pressing into them like a vice. He took a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but the tequila was beginning to hit him full force now and it was as if the air had been knocked out of him.
He looked up and the walls were suddenly much closer than they had been. He tried to move back towards the stairs, but he couldn't make himself move.
I'm not back there. Don't be an idiot, Moran.
But the voice of reason was gradually growing hoarse, and he could feel his words as they broke under his fingers, finally free from the skin cage that entrapped them. Earth surrounded him. He was back in his darkness, just him and the words...
He sat slowly, his breath coming quickly as he closed his eyes and found the words.
Ten minutes was far too long a time to pick out a bottle of wine, even for Moran. So she hauled herself up and headed for the cellar stairs, cursing the darkness and her pumps as she picked her way down. Christ, where's the light switch? "Moran? I certainly hope the troll I'm almost certain is living down here hasn't gotten you."
His voice wandered out of the darkness, barely above a whisper.
" ...Bhí sé cosúil le long bháite sa spéir. Nuair a thosaigh an spéir a crack. Bhí sé cosúil le fuip ar mo dhroim..."
"Fuck," she hissed, kicking off her shoes and chucking them in the general direction of the stairs before following the sound of his mumbling, fingers curling into his jacket and pulling, trying to get him to stand. "C'mon. C'mon, we're going upstairs. Seb."
He jolted against her grip, surprised, and part of him knew exactly who she was, knew to listen, was shouting at the rest of him to do so- He snarled and twisted against her, a bloody hand snapping up to grab her wrist, but then he stopped, frozen, fighting himself. "Upstairs," he finally agreed, voice strained.
She didn't waste any time pulling him after her, hand falling from his shirt to his wrist, towing him up the stairs until they reached the light of the living room again, where she spun and grabbed both of his wrists in hers, to get a good look at how much blood was on his hands. "I'm calling Jim. She's not coming here. I'll meet with her, alone, like we were going to do anyway, I can't let her affect you like this, I won't."
He closed his eyes against the light. It seemed his pupils had blown out even in just the few minutes down there. Old habit, he supposed. "I'm fine," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have gone down there. That was stupid." His blood was running easily thanks to the alcohol in his system, and he sighed. "Just let me get cleaned up."
"I'm not risking it, Sebastian. I'm calling Jim," she shook her head, letting go of him and retrieving her phone from the sofa. Absently, she wiped off her bloody wrist on her dress.
"You want to call James Moriarty and tell him I'm not up for a job. Don't be a moron," he snorted, walking into the kitchen to start rinsing his bleeding arms.
"That's not what I'm going to say," she retorted, following him into the kitchen with her phone in hand, finger hovering over the call button. "But I am going to tell him that... no, fuck, you're right. I can't bring him into this. Fuck! The second that bitch stops being useful I'm going to carve the nose off her goddamn face."
"Something I will readily assist you in. For the time being, get the first aid kit. And a clean shirt for me." He glanced over at her, taking command solidly into his hands.
She nodded with a quick duck of her head and disappeared back out of the kitchen, chucking her phone back onto the couch with a muttered swear directed at the situation. She was back a few minutes later, the first aid kit in one hand, the replacement shirt in the other. "Here. I'll take the other one."
He nodded handing her the shirt and opening the kit, pulling out gauze and pressing it to the oozing scratches on his left arm.
Again she disappeared, this time to throw the shirt into the hamper upstairs, but she when she came back down she sat at the kitchen table, sighing. "I should probably go pick out a wine, shouldn't I." She made no move to get up.
"Probably." He'd moved on to bandaging the arm, wrapping it firmly and taping the bandages in place before pulling on the new shirt. He glanced at her. "Relax."
"Sorry. We both know how I feel about being helpless," she muttered, rolling her eyes at herself. She stood, scuffing her bare foot on the floor. "I'll go get the wine and my shoes."
He nodded, buttoning up his shirt and sticking the first aid kit under the sink, taking a breath. Keep control.
She was gone a little longer this time, mostly because she had to find the light switch, but when she came back it was with the clacking of heels and a Pinot Noir in hand. "Have to say," she sighed, setting the bottle down on the table with a dull thud, "I am a little curious as to what she has to say that requires an entire dinner."
"It may be nothing," he pointed out. "Jim might just be testing our resolve. My resolve."
"If that's the case, I can't wait to hear what excuse she makes up," she muttered, sinking down at the table again. Absently, she twisted the wedding ring on her finger.
He stood, walking over to touch her chin, raising an eyebrow until she looked at him. "She's nothing. You're letting her under your skin. Don't."
She gave him a rueful smile. "I know. I wish I could shrug it off. Turns out I'm only good at that when it involves strangers."
He nodded a little, expression blank. "Then pull it together as best you can. We have a job to do. I don't want to face Jim if we fail here. I know I started this spiral but we need to stop it before it gets worse."
"I don't have to pull it together. This is why I'm such a good actress," she snorted, smirking a little more sincerely now. I don't want to point out that I don't feel like I have to act in front of you. "Don't worry. She won't know shit from me."
He nodded just a little, then headed into the kitchen to start prepping the leftovers.
She stayed where she was, knowing that the time it would take for Sara to arrive would pass more quickly than she would like even sitting here in boredom.
The doorbell rang just as he was putting the fish in the oven to reheat, and he took a slow breath before walking out into the living room. "Right..."
Lorna was already by the door, looking over her shoulder, waiting for Sebastian. When he was by her side, she twisted the knob and pulled open the door, a cold smile slipping onto her face. "Sara. Come on in."
Sara examined the two of them closely. Behind her was a tall man, dressed in a dark suit that screamed 'bodyguard'. "This is Paul. I hope you don't mind that he joins us?"
It wasn't a question, but Moran didn't let it phase him. One bodyguard with little experience (judging from the tie) meant little to him. "Hardly. Come inside." He stepped back.
Sara stepped inside, her bodyguard on her heels, her eyes scanning the pair with a sharp eye. She hadn't seen either of them since she'd had them thrown in their respective dungeons, and they were looking decidedly worse for wear, though, excluding the scars, they looked healthy. Not that she particularly cared; she had a dull kind of curiosity for her half-brother's life, and if he was going to be of use to her, she didn't see any reason to dislike him. She wouldn't trust him, but she would tolerate him. Lorna shut the door behind them, then turned and headed for the dining room.
"Dinner's almost ready. Dining room is this way," she said tonelessly, a little bitter that Sara was still taller than her, even with the shoes she was wearing. Normally, she might have tried and flirted with the bodyguard a little - she'd already forgotten his name, and she didn't care - but she wanted Sebastian's hag of a sister to grasp just how likely she was to kill for him.
Sara followed her at a slight distance, and Moran a few steps behind, ignoring the bodyguard's attempts to start an intimidation-style staring contest. His attention was on his sister.
He hadn't been paying much attention to her appearance when they'd first met. His focus had been elsewhere, on Lorna, on escaping. Now that he looked, it was striking how much she resembled their father. She didn't have the same facial structure, and perhaps physically had less in common with the man than he did, but the feeling of her features, the overall impression, was so like Riordan that for a moment, when she turned, it was like staring his father in the face.
Sara sat at the table calmly, her expression carefully neutral as she observed her hosts. It was obvious that they did not share her willingness to put dislike aside, though she didn't suppose she could blame them. Her father hadn't told her the details of what he had done to the woman, but given the state his body had been in she had been able to guess some, and her visible scars confirmed a few suspicions. What was more interesting were the scars her brother bore, words of some sort scrawled across most of his visible skin and obviously extending beneath his clothing. She observed it with the bored curiosity of a teenager dragged to a museum, and then decided she didn't particularly care. She was here on business.
"Mr. Moriarty tells me you'll be assisting me."
"And here I'd thought you had the gall to request us," Lorna replied dryly, sitting in the chair opposite the woman, pretending that her eyes weren't that startling, signature Moran blue. "But I guess even you don't have the guts to request people who wouldn't mind an opportunity to off you." Her eyes slid to the bodyguard as she spoke, a positively predatory gleam to them, interested in how he'd react. He met her eyes without flinching, but it was obvious by his posture that he wanted to appear more threatening than he felt. Good.
"I requested the best. It didn't matter to me whether or not that meant the two of you," Sara shrugged lightly. Sara carried far too many of her father's genes to be easily cowed, but she was cognizant of the danger these criminals could represent to her, if Moriarty couldn't keep them on a tight enough leash. Unfortunately, it appeared she'd have to put some measure of trust in him; on keeping his mouth shut, and on controlling his employees.
"We are the best," Sebastian said calmly. "At a lot of things. Lorna here is a wonderful liar, and a startling actress. Personally I dabble in strategy, torture, and murder. Right now we're on the same team. What do you bring to the table again, exactly?"
"Power," Sara smiled slightly, her hands folded together on the table. "It'll amaze you, how much it helps." She gave the dining room a quick scan with calculating eyes. Looking for personal touches, things they'd left in the open. There was nothing. She wasn't surprised.
"You know what else brings you power, Sara? Dealing heroin. That's a different sort. Useful to certain people. Political power, though?" Lorna gave a mild shrug. "Doesn't affect reality. Just liquid assets."
"Besides. You think for a moment your so-called 'power' impresses us?" Sebastian added with a snort. You're a half-dead double-A to Jim's nuclear power plant. You'll do until something better comes along. My suggestion? Try to make that 'better' a higher goal to reach."
Lorna smirked as Sara struggled for a good retort, sliding back her chair and standing as the oven chimed. "Dinner's ready. I'll help you, Sebastian. I can feel the air growing stale in here."
He flashed Sara a toothy grin as he stood, following Lorna into the kitchen, leaving his sister to stew.
Lorna had just pulled the fish out of the oven, and he walked up behind her silently, bending to kiss the back of her neck, teeth nipping slightly at her spine.
She put down the hot tray with just a little more of a clang than would have been normal, a shiver going through her. "It's moments like these that ought to comfort you," she chuckled, turning to face him, "You're still completely unpredictable."
"Good. I was concerned I was losing my touch," he muttered, leaning in to bite her throat solidly, definitely hard enough to leave a mark. "What do you think my sister would say if I fucked you into the cabinetry for a few minutes?"
"I don't know," she breathed a little unsteadily, fingers pulling at his shirt, untucking it. "Why don't we find out?"
He smirked, spinning her around away from the hot stove and pressing her up against the opposite wall, pushing up her black skirt around her waist as he continued to trace tongue and teeth along her neck and shoulders.
She drew her nails down his clothed chest, convinced that her heart was going to just jump out of hers, it was beating so hard, and she almost laughed at how easily he could flip this switch in her. Her fingers caught on the waistband of his slacks and she retrieved her other hand from where it was clutching his side to enlist its help in getting them undone. She managed it after a few tries, distracted as she was by his teeth on her.
He was entertained to discover that she was wearing no knickers, and smirked against her shoulder. "Planning or just rushed?" he inquired as he pushed a finger into her with little delicacy.
She gasped, digging her fingers into his hips, biting her lip for a moment to keep herself from vocalizing further. "Pants ruin the lines of the dress," she finally responded, turning a little to catch his ear with her teeth, one hand sliding into his hair, the other into his boxer briefs. "But the possibilities didn't escape me."
He let out a low, rumbling groan against her skin, grinding his hips forward into her hand slightly. "Well, then, shall we? Don't want the fish to get cold..."
"If this is how you want me, go right on ahead," she murmured, pulling him out of his pants so she could stroke him with a little more finesse, nails raking through his hair.
He grinned and trailed his tongue in a smooth line up to her ear. "Pressed up against the wall, dress around your waist, what's not to love?" he asked breathlessly.
"Solid point," she smirked, rolling her hips into his, chuckling a little. "You might need to pick me up, though, if you want to fuck me and not my hand."
"So picky," he muttered, removing his hand from her and grabbing her hips. He lifted her without any struggle, pinning her against the wall and pressing himself against her, shifting for a moment before he lined up, and pushing into her without any ado.
She muffled a moan into his shoulder, clutching fistfuls of his shirt, already trying to get a rhythm started, aching for more. This was the best 'fuck you' to his sister that she could think of, and she was going to enjoy every second of it.
He made an effort to keep his voice down, but no attempt to keep his movements quiet, the drive of his hips thumping Lorna against the wall slightly with each stroke. He very much hoped they could be heard. Soon, however, even that thought was gone, and his sole focus was on the burning pleasure winding its way along his spine.
She held on for dear life, as was her usual strategy when they needed to be done quick, with no time for dallying, and the harsh sound of his breath by her ear and the wall against her back and the way he could move, Jesus Christ, all had her panting hard into his neck, partly from the sheer ecstasy of it, partly because not moaning was taking so much effort.
"Oh come on," he cajoled in her ear, his voice hoarse and breathless. "Give'r one good moan to remember us by." He dug his teeth into the side of her neck as he ground his hips against hers firmly.
"Oh, fuck," she groaned, letting her head fall back, another moan escaping her before she could help it, now that it was allowed. "Seb."
He snarled against her skin, smiling at the desire in her voice as he shifted a hand between them, rubbing roughly as he started to get close.
She cried out as she tumbled over the edge, arching off the wall into him, unable to keep herself still under the stimulation, nails scraping across his clothed shoulder blade, searching for a hold of any kind to keep herself grounded.
He came right behind her, pressing his forehead against the cool wood of the cabinets, gripping her tightly to him.
She just caught up on her breath as she came down, one hand lightly clasping the back of his neck, the other hooked limply into the waist of his slacks. "I think that breaks the record of speed I've orgasmed in," she muttered, chuckling a little, leaning her head back against the cabinets, "You've outdone yourself."
He laughed. "I had some extra incentive," he pointed out, setting her down and standing back to redo his trousers.
She smirked, pulling her dress back down and turning on the spot to get plates out of the cabinets. "I hope that's seared into their brains for the next few months."
"I have little doubt that Paul will be jerking off to it later this evening," he said cheerfully as he took the plates and started to divvy up the fish.
"Good," she hummed, "I enjoy making men vulnerable." She got out the wine glasses and retrieved the wine itself, carrying it out into the dining room with a smirk on her face. She desperately hoped one of them saidsomething; she was way too smug to keep it all to herself.
Paul was red in the face, though he seemed to be willing it to disappear. Sara looked like her calm exterior was a difficult thing to maintain.
"Glad to hear my brother has an active love life," Sara said coolly, attempting to get the ball back in her court. "I heard trauma can cause issues in bed..."
That wasn't going to stand, and Sara should have known that. She knew what they were capable of, vaguely - she'd only seen their handiwork, hadn't she? Lorna thought that it was about time she was reminded that the threat was very present. She slammed the wine bottle onto the table with a squeak of abused glass, and was in Sara's face the next instant, pushing the chair back so it was on two legs, held from tipping over only by her hand. The bodyguard would stop her in a second, but that was all she needed. "I'll defend Sebastian with my life, but your brother is not the one who's trauma could cause issues in bed," she spat, not hesitating to make the survivalist in her obvious in her eyes. "Do you know how many times I was raped by your father? Did you even conceptualize it? Don't talk to me about trauma, you political whore."
Sebastian was on her before the guard had even fumbled his way out of his chair, pulling Lorna back before Paul could get trigger happy with the glock poorly hidden in his belt. As soon as Lorna let go, Sara's chair tipped backwards and she hit the ground with a thud.
"Calm the fuck down, Harrison," he hissed in her ear. "We're playing nice, remember?"
Sara was gathering herself, getting back to her feet with Paul's assistance.
"That was playing nice," she snorted, the fire gone from her voice like she'd flipped a switch, stuffed it in a drawer to be forgotten. "I didn't touch her, did I? Not my fault I had to drop the chair," she shrugged, turning on her heel to give him a bright smile before she leaned over to pick up the wine again. I'm playing nice. I just wanted her to see my fangs before she got too cocky.
He nodded just a little, making a mental note to get her to let the energy she'd just squelched out later, and turning to Sara. "If you wouldn't mind curbing your comments a bit, Sara. It's a tad rude to antagonize your host. People can get... hurt." He headed back into the kitchen without waiting for a response, and returned with their plates of food.
Sara didn't say anything until the wine was poured and dinner served, preoccupied with her thoughts. There was a difference between hearing about a rabid dog and being faced with one yourself, and she was fairly certain she'd just seen the difference herself. This didn't mean she'd let herself be bossed around by the two of them, but perhaps she would keep the quips to a minimum. Paul was cheap, as hired guns went, but her brother was one of the most expensive money could buy. The playing field would be easier to navigate in public, of that much she was sure. "There's an art auction coming up that I can't make it to. The two of you will go; buy something, chat up the competition, see if you can't ingratiate yourself to Haley Hanover. She's got legislation in the works that I can't have coming to pass. I need spies. Do what it takes to make it into her little 'inner circle'."
"I believe we could be convinced to do that," Moran agreed, smiling. "But it's going to cost you."
Sara frowned, sipping her wine. "I've paid Moriarty his fees."
"Moriarty isn't the one who could shoot you from a thousand yards. Sure, I'd take some flack, but in the end, you're replaceable." He didn't blink, just drilled his gaze into hers.
Sara ate a forkful of salmon, eyes flicking once from Sebastian to Lorna, then back again. "Fine," she said, a little stiffly. "What do you want?"
"For one, don't come here without at least a week's notice. I don't appreciate that kind of surprise," Lorna said archly, leaning back in her chair, glass of wine held delicately in her fingers.
Sebastian nodded in agreement. "Secondly, for every three jobs we do for you, you will give us a video tape of you and a lover doing something... inventive, without any clothing on. Assuming all goes well, they will never be released to the world. Assuming it doesn't... Well, Lorna gets a little pointed revenge."
Sara finally looked actually flustered. "Excuse me? Absolutely not," she scoffed, frowning fiercely. Lorna chuckled.
"Why not? Nobody who will fuck you for a dime?"
"Pity," Sebastian sighed. "You know, Lorna, with that big head she has I bet I could kill her from farther away than a thousand yards. Two thousand, maybe?"
"Every five jobs," she said tensely, glaring at the two of them. "Every five jobs, you'll get a tape. Deal?"
"Four," Sebastian smirked. "Or I lose interest. And it had better be more fun than missionary, sister dear. I'll be rating."
Lorna let out a sort of exasperated criminals-will-be-criminals chuckle and shoveled down some more salmon, with Sara could barely force herself to touch.
"You're disgusting," Sara grimaced, which was tantamount to surrendering.
"And yet I've never debased myself so far as to stick you in solitary for three months. Rethinking that line now," he returned sweetly. "Oh, look at the time," he said, gaze never shifting from her, much less to a clock. "I think you've overstayed your welcome, Sara... I'm sure you remember the way out?"
Red-faced and angry, she stood with a huff and left, her bodyguard trailing behind her. Lorna didn't truly relax until she heard the door slam behind them, and then she chugged her wine.
He stood, walking through to the entryway and locking the door, watching on the security monitor next to it to ensure that Sara and Paul actually left, before heading for the kitchen and finding the largest bottle of high-proof alcohol he could find. It proved to be vodka, and he opened it without a second glance, taking a long pull straight from the bottle before finding glasses and cranberry juice from the fridge.
"I have to say I think that went well," she said in a strained voice as he returned to the dining room. "Oh, good, you made drinks. I'd like to get hammered."
He set down the glasses and filled them most of the way with vodka, added a splash of juice and shoved one in her direction, leaving the vodka bottle open. "Extremely."
She downed the first one like it was a shot, and immediately poured herself another one, still swallowing the aftertaste of alcohol and cranberry. "I'd say we did a little table turning."
He nodded in agreement, taking his own vodka just a touch more slowly, though by the time she'd finished pouring he was about ready for another. He smirked. "Her face was priceless."
"We better hope she doesn't cry to Jim, though," she shook her head, though she chuckled a little. "Such a politician. I wouldn't have gotten up in her face with her if she was an actual criminal, but that was just irresistible."
"Jim won't give a shit," he said with a shrug. "Why would he? It's not like we're impeding what she can do in any way. Who knows. He might actually be amused by the situation."
She snorted. "He might have us send him the tapes. I do look forward to seeing who she plans to use."
"She isn't in a relationship, at least not that Jim knows of. And for Jim not to know of something seems much more unlikely than her being single." He swirled his vodka absently.
"Sounds like Paul's paycheck might be getting more substantial soon," she smirked, sipping at her own beverage and remembering the look on his face.
"Christ, I hope so. That would be fucking hilarious," he snorted. He picked up a bit of fish and considered it, before putting it in his mouth, thinking quietly. "So now we need to go make friends with what's-her-name."
"Haley Hanover," she muttered, more to herself than to him, just so she wouldn't forget it. "Well, we could also probably find a place to fuck in an art gallery, so there's that little bonus."
"Does it seem to you like we're living drink to drink and fuck to fuck, or is that just me?" he asked, the vodka starting to kindle a nice warmth in his ribcage.
She sighed. "I don't know what other kind of life we could live, Sebastian. During a job like this, I don't think there's a lot of downtime, even just being by ourselves. I'll take what distractions I can get."
He shrugged. "I don't know. I miss sniping. Haven't gotten to do a damned surveillance job in months now. Seems like more and more I'm doing this." He waved his hand at the house. "Grifting."
"Sorry," she murmured, taking another drink. She knew how he felt about her profession; he didn't see any longevity in it, and god knew he'd rather kill and torture than lie and cheat his way to the next paycheck. There wasn't much she could do about Jim assigning him to go with her, though.
"Not your fault. And I'd rather he bore me than torment me, so I suppose there's that," he smirked. He glanced over at her. "You're not bored, sometimes, at least." He was glad for that, though he phrased it as more of a playful jab.
She gave a bit of a tired chuckle into her glass. "Yeah, I guess so. I'm just thankful I'm not filling out paperwork at a desk. Who knew the criminal underground had so much bureaucracy?"
"Not me, that's for sure. And yet somehow I ended up doing most of it," he snorted.
"Damn that paperwork," she smirked, finishing off her second drink. She was starting to feel just a little unbalanced now. "At least when you're grifting with me you can fuck me instead of someone else."
As it turned out, they had almost two weeks to kill before the auction. Moran did everything he could to remain sane. Satellite work for Jim, going to the shooting range (though clay pigeons were ridiculously easy to hit. He had more fun winning bets against old, pompous aristocrats), and fucking Harrison in as many creative ways as they could sort out. It was... interesting, but he realized that there was a reason he never took vacations. He hated them.
Finally, the night had arrived, and he was tying the special rip-away bow-tie of his tuxedo into place. "Almost ready?"
"Almost," she hummed from the bathroom, applying the finishing strokes of lipstick onto her lips before stepping back from the vanity. She was outfitted in a navy blue dress that was tight until it hit her hips, where it flared out - much less attention-seeking than her club attire, and classier, too, especially with the positively boring black stockings she''d pulled on. With suspenders, of course. She couldn't bear it otherwise. "Okay, ready."
He nodded, finishing off straightening the tie and resisting the urge to pull it off. Even specially constructed as it was, it went against his judgement. "Alright. Let's go then. We're already fashionably late."
"Good. That's how I like to make my entrances," she grinned as she came out of the bathroom, heading for the door. "Let's go get em', Tiger."
He smirked, offering her his arm and then heading down with her for where the Jag was parked out front. Jim had been generous.