featherbed | OPEN RP.

"Deep down we both know it wasn't supposed to end like this."

Summer. Past noon, post bath. Three days before a man in Mustique needs a long, low-cut dress and a dagger shoved well up beneath the bone of his jaw. And she decides, sipping away at a fresh cappuccino , wrapped in plush cashmere and little else (cool wooden floors serving as a comfortable contrast to the heat between her fingertips) that she'd rather be there instead of her spare flat in London, watching the rain come down in buckets.

Bad weather has little to do with it.

There are letters on the coffee table. Ten months' worth, opened with so much care that they're neither torn nor wrinkled; handwriting inside as unfamiliar as the names-- save for one: Cutter.

Odd thing about it being that it's all old news. Registered data. Well beyond the point of being useful, but Frazer pins them all to paper. Catalogues the time stamps the way they're burned into the back of her mind. That he's lasted ten months when it ought to have been four. That the last time they had tea, she never once went for the bangle at her wrist--

That she ought to put a bullet through the delicate, woven tissue of his throat just to watch him bleed out and cut short how much trouble he's become.

There's no such thing as jealousy. Not for members of the Order, not when it leads to irrational conflict, careless mistakes. Frazer's been trained well enough to know better than to indulge no matter how satisfying the outcome.

Eliminating a threat, on the other hand? Perfectly reasonable. Particularly one that's embedding itself in the skin of their most recent investment.

Which is exactly what she'll say should the matter come up, she thinks, scrolling through the contact list of Charlie's phone. Meera's information comes up quick, previous text conversations skimmed through, noted, and then mimicked with minimal effort.

passing the bookshop just down the road. thought you might like a cuppa

Edited (subject lines what are they) 2013-07-13 06:22 (UTC)

[For once Chloe's early, elbows propped up over worn table wood, hands tucked neatly under her chin as she scans the bar's entrance (more hole than door thanks to the United Earth's most recent efforts) for the barest sign of her expected company. Three pints set out in front keeps any exceedingly lonely patrons from assuming she's drinking alone, and ensures the lads will have something else to fixate on aside from the sight of one another once they finally turn up.

Till the introductions start, at least. ]

He's never been much of a gambler - not the the traditional sense anyway. Sure, he knows cards all right, knows how to shuffle and few parlor tricks but what self respecting low dealing con artist this side of the Thames doesn't know how to turn a few? Poker's not really is game. Neither is blackjack. Or craps or roulette or slot machines or any of that shit. If he's betting money, he'd rather put it on a fight or a dog or something with more heart in it than bits of pressed card stock.

But sure: poker night. They're supposed to be bonding or something and what better way to do it than cheating Sully out of some of his spare change? "Alright," he says as he jams open the window in the cramped flat's living room. Maybe with the right airflow, they won't be smelling cigars for a solid month after. "But I hope you told him this was BYOB because there isn't much left here."

[Well it could be worse.

Or at least that's what Garrus tells himself, anyway. After all, there are worse things than getting stuck in a room so luxurious it'd make even the asari consort feel completely out of place. He's fairly certain he's seen senators in smaller quarters.

And that the station's been going a little haywire's common knowledge by this point. (Yesterday the pantry sealed shut on him for twenty minutes, while the unlucky explorer just next door was trapped for well over an hour before Garrus could figure out how to crack through the lock.) Minor pain in the ass, but whatever, it's not the worst he's put up with for the sake of tracking down some solid information.

So for the moment he's currently meandering around the far corner of the room, just beside a window lit by a near blinding synthetic sky.]

Just out of curiosity, it's not a bad idea to drink something left behind on an abandoned ship if it looks expensive, right?

Another month, another jump; strange how routine can make anything seem normal. Though normal or not, coming out of the Tranquility's grav couches is still unpleasant, still leaves her feeling knock kneed and weak through her limbs, still has her gagging from the removal of the breathing tube.

She spends a few seconds orienting herself in space and then clambers to her feet in the slick puddle of fluids ejected from the stasis pod along with her. With a hand to the pod to steady herself, Shepard takes a moment to asses her own body (it's a habitual check list) and then shoves off. She heads down the long row of grav couches, past familiar and unfamiliar faces and toward the med bay and showers.

God, the promise of hot water sounds good right about now.

Slipping away's easy enough: the crack of distant gunfire keeps her footsteps quiet, hard crackle of radio communication occupying enough of Flynn's attention that he and his men hardly notice her half the time. Lazarevic on the other hand isn't blind-- he just couldn't care less. Half a city between him and his prize and the same feverish obsession that's had him collecting more clippings than she can count doesn't look like it'll be letting up soon.

So long as she doesn't do anything stupid, they'll continue to be none the wiser.

And she's confident, but not stupid: waits to snap over the radio frequency till she's two blocks in the clear, keeps cover at her back and sides to muffle the sound of her voice. It's so foolproof that Chloe's not even attempting to press out a whisper as she clicks the radio on.

"You there, Nate?"

for charliiie

and this is for shepard 8D

and this is for natasha because i can

no subject

no subject

AU