so I felt compelled to keep playing around with the banter and flirting from Visuals, and hence part two...which means I might need to start considering an actual title, seeing as 'Visuals' has become Ch.1...again, crits and reviews are motivation =)
Ch.2 – Jack of All Trades
"So let me make sure I'm clear on this. This isn't a Fringe division case?"
Peter shifts his stance against the office door, the wood creaking in protest. Just on the other side, the rustle of cloth and clack of jewelry adds a soundtrack to Peter's knowledge of the situation.
"Exactly. I'm doing this as a favor for some old friends."
He's glad she can't see him rolling his eyes.
"Favor. Does it come with an I.O.U. for future returns? Oh wait, that's right, our work is classified."
"Come on, Peter. It's not as if we have a case of our own right now."
The rustling has stopped, and he imagines her turning herself about before a mirror, primping and perfecting every detail.
Do hard-core, gun-slinging FBI agents preen?
"You know, normal people would take the downtime as a blessing and do something for themselves. Say, I don't know, hit the bar with a friend and spend some quality bonding time?"
The snort tells him she's not convinced.
"That was weak. Even for you."
He smiles half-heartedly. "I'd be on my A-game if I actually got to enjoy my scant few days off, instead of being dragged into a favor for some old bureau buddies, which by the way is not detailed in my job description."
"You don't have a job description, Mr. Bishop."
He feels offended. Almost.
"Says who?"
A clack of heels sends his imagination reeling.
"Says the woman who pushed the papers through…although, I think I remember a one-liner, something about 'jack of all trades', it's a little fuzzy."
A sharper stiletto-esque click, and he's completely re-evaluating what this get-up might look like.
"And there may have been a footnote about various legally questionable talents."
"Cute. I'll remember that the first time you lock yourself out of your apartment."
A little soft laughter behind the door tells him she's already considered this scenario.
"So anyway, this case has nothing to do with slime, bodies, genetic mutation or giant cold viruses."
The silence is a resounding 'yes'.
"Then why am I tagging along for the ride?"
A hesitant silence follows. "I need someone there in case he tries to run."
He considers the implications of this.
"Which means I'll be stuck sitting in the car. Again."
"No…"
He shifts a little, curious as to what excuse she has ready to pull out of her ass.
"…it means you'll be staying in the car for the first time in history.
My intuition tells me your record is five minutes."
"You give me far too much credit," he chuckles.
"Yeah? …don't tell Charlie. We have a running bet I'd like to collect on."
"Hell, you give me a fifty-fifty cut and I'll put the seat back and sleep for an hour."
"I hope you're joking."
"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."
She knocks quietly on the door. Peter shifts his weight off the hard wood surface and steps away, waiting.
Half expecting a snarky cat-call, Olivia opens the door slowly, taking a tentative step out.
What startles her more is his absolute silence.
She shoots him a nervous glance.
The obvious once-over is flattering and unnerving all at once.
"Peter?"
He blinks and takes a solid breath, seeming to regain himself.
What was that about dinner and a movie?
"Did you happen to say there would be dancing?"
She eyes him anxiously. "Peter…"
"Come on, Olivia." His hand brushes her arm, just a whisper, and she hopes those aren't goose bumps she feels prickling across her skin.
"Don't tell me no one ever taught you to dance. Besides, I look smart in a two-piece," he smiles.
She chides herself for thinking he looks smart in just about anything.
"I need someone to be able to chase my guy if he runs…"
"I can run in dress shoes," he counters quickly. "You haven't seen me crash a wedding..."
She shakes her head slowly, smile of disbelief pursing her lips.
"You're quite the card, Peter."
He grants her a dazzling grin in return. "Jack of all trades, right?"
They lock eyes for only a moment, each silently daring the other to back down, before Olivia turns away with a small smirk and grabs her cell phone from the desk.
"Charlie? We're going to need a black, two-piece suit."
Just as too many times before, Charlie won't ask.