A Mood of Pessimism, Fatalism and Menace

[laurasauras]

Title: A Mood of Pessimism, Fatalism and Menace
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Diamonds Droog/Spades Slick
Summary: Diamonds Droog should go straight home after work. He never does.

You have always had a very staunch policy of doing the exact amount of work that you're getting paid for, no more, no less. You're damn efficient at your job, which makes your frequent smoke breaks a non-issue. It also means that you arrive directly on 9 am and leave directly at 5 pm. Figuratively speaking. An agent of Derse such as yourself would never keep such mundane hours.

Just because you clock off exactly when you're expected to, that doesn't mean that you leave the building. No, you might be unfailingly pragmatic at your job, but you have a rather pathetic reason to linger. You're in love with your boss.

Tonight your shift actually does end at 5 in the evening, mostly because you've been over on Prospit for the last week and a half doing some recon and it's a bitch adjusting back to a more nocturnal habit. You're allowed to choose your hours on paperwork days, and it's been a hell of a paperwork day. You aren't quite finished with your reports, but you're not the kind of sucker to put in an extra hour to get them done when they'll keep until tomorrow. 

You are the kind of sucker who knocks on his boss's door to check in unnecessarily on the way out. The kind of sucker who closes the door behind him and hangs his hat up like he's going to stick around a while.

You're back, Slick says, as if he hadn't known or cared to know. It doesn't bite. You don't have expectations of him. In your experience, drawing the attention of the boss means you've done a bad job. You're not so desperate as to do that. 

Got back yesterday, you tell him. You tell him it was every bit a pansy-ass banana moon as you both know it to be. He knows, he says. Yeah, well, it was a waste of time, you say. He knows that, too.

You pull out your papers and tobacco and sit down in the seat on the other side to his desk. He watches your hands hungrily. You raise one side of your brow as you pinch tobacco into a neat line. You ask him if he wants one. He has his own. You tell him you know he has his own, you also know he likes yours better. You ask him again if he wants one. 

Yeah, he says. 

You bring the paper to your mouth and wet the edge with the tip of your tongue. Now that he's been assured of his nicotine, he doesn't bother to watch you. He looks back at the masses of paperwork on his desk. You hand him the cigarette and start rolling your own. He uses a lighter, not matches. No class. He holds his smoke over the ashtray as he continues to work through his inbox, occasionally taking a pull. You watch him silently. You've made enough of a habit of this that he doesn't question your presence after quitting time. Hell, this is a weird hour for you to be off, maybe he thinks it's your lunch break.

He reaches a sparkly pink memo and glares at it before bringing it closer to him to read. You don't hate the old lady, she's got a way of holding herself like everybody's beneath her that appeals to you. Slick hates her. Probably because she's his boss. He ain't never had a boss he liked. 

He slams down the memo and swears. Nice language, you tell him. You ask him if he kisses his mama with that mouth. You wait for him to tell you no, but he kissed yours last night and she seemed to like it, but he doesn't. He stands, grinds out his cigarette and stalks out of the room. He doesn't even take his hat.

You contemplate leaving. He's gonna be in a shitty mood when he gets back and you don't know if you want to deal with that. All Slick's moods are a degree of shitty, but you're not the kind of man who generally waits around for things to get shittier. You stay and smoke your way through three cigarettes instead. You tell yourself if you get to five, you're leaving. 

He comes back in as you're lighting up your fourth and snatches it out of your hand, sucking in the smoke like he's drowning. Yeah, go right ahead, you tell him. Not like I was using that. He glares at you as he exhales slowly, smoke seeping out of his mouth in all directions. That's a good look, you tell him. It is, but he thinks you're being sarcastic. 

He glares at you for a moment longer then rests his cigarette on the ashtray as he opens a cupboard in his desk. He bends down to pull out something and then straightens with a sealed whisky bottle. It has a bow on it. He unscrews the cap and takes a long draught before holding it out to you.

You hesitate. This would not be very in line with your professionally detached self image. You've gotten drunk with the boys on three occasions over your 16 year career. Two of those times were at funerals. The other was a close call. On the other hand, the man you're hopelessly in love with is offering you a drink.

You sigh and undo your top button, pulling your tie just slightly loose in a practised motion, and take the damn bottle. 

You know you can drink a guy like Slick under the table anyway and booze doesn't change you like it does men like Boxcars. You've never been an "I love you, man" kind of drunk. Slick takes the bottle back and you watch his throat as he swallows three whole mouthfuls before he drops the bottle again.

This time you don't hesitate to take the bottle back. If only so he isn't the one holding it. 

What brought this on you wonder aloud. You're holding onto the bottle, not drinking yet. You're good at drinking, but you're not so classless as to race Slick to the bottom of what was probably supposed to be a Christmas present without any sort of context.

Slick grunts and tries to take the bottle back. You hold it out of his reach. You love every one of the four inches you have on the boss, but you could have leaned back even without the advantage. The forced closeness of his hand draws your attention, but it doesn't keep it. You're not a fool with a crush. Your love for Slick is a long-burning and inconvenient fact of your life. You're quite used to the effect his proximity has on you. You can hide it damn well.

You sip slowly from the bottle, trying to provide an example of what secret office drinking should look like. He doesn't seem impressed by your model employee behaviour. The second it leaves your lips he's holding his hand out again. 

I'll give it to you if you tell me why you're drinking you tell him. Slick gives you the kind of glare that has quite literally made Deuce cry before. It doesn't affect you. Or ... not in the intended way.

You take another lazy sip. You have his attention and it burns deliciously under your skin. 

Slick tells you he's quitting. You tell him he's not. You remind him that he quits three times a day and he hasn't even come in late before. 

I fucking hate that bitch he tells you. Yeah, you know you say. She's a piece of work. You're glad you don't have to deal with her. 

Are you quitting or are you fired you ask him. I'm not fucking fired he tells you. I'm quitting he tells you. It's just that you don't exactly keep a civil tongue with her you say. She's a classy broad. Probably doesn't appreciate being called a cunt. 

She is a cunt, Slick mutters.

You don't think that's really the issue at hand. 

You sometimes wish you could hold Slick's attention like she does. But then, you don't really want that. You don't want or need any kind of reciprocation here. You're a professional. You've been holding this candle with an air of insouciance for many years now, you ain't ruining that because he's looking more vulnerable than you've seen him even with a dozen holes stabbed in him. 

You hand him the bottle. What can you say, you're a softie.

She wants us to do this job, Slick explains, gripping the bottle like it's a neck. It doesn't fucking matter, we're not doing it, he says.

Dirty?

Slick scoffs at you and takes a drink. He passes it back as if you didn't deprive him of it last time. The trust feels nice and you reward it by handing the bottle back before he even asks after you take your share.

All our jobs are dirty he reminds you. You know this, but Slick has standards, doesn't he. Slick makes another scoffing noise. 

So what's the big deal you ask him. Big deal is that she and I have very different ideas on what the acceptable number of casualties for a gig is, Slick says. 

Oh, you say. 

Yeah, he says. 

Slick always kinda looks like he needs a drink. This time you really believe that look. He stabs out his cigarette and you straighten your legs out and lift your hips so you can retrieve the shit you need to make him another. You're a good man, he says. Flattery will get you anywhere you want to be you tell him. You can feel the urge to take the teasing further on the tip of your tongue, but you're not that kind of drunk either. You hand over the rollie and he exchanges it for the bottle. 

What are we gonna do you ask him. 

He sighs, exhaling your 'we' back at you like he doesn't believe that's a thing.

Come on, boss, I've followed you so far haven't I you point out. You don't bring up the other boys. They're not in the room. They'd follow Slick to the end of the world too but you're gonna hoard all that good intention just for a little bit. 

Yeah you have Slick says. Why is that Slick says. What the fuck is it about my tired asshole self that makes you three stand by me.

Pay's never been late you note. Reasonable hours. Keeps you in suits and smokes. 

None of that has shit to do with me he tells you. Yeah, you know. You take another mouthful of whisky. Maybe a guy doesn't like to come across all sentimental when there's still half a bottle to go you tell him. Maybe a guy can shove it up his wastechute he says. He's not asking for sentiment, he's asking for a show of god damn solidarity.

You point out that you wouldn't take a bullet for just any fucker. You're pretty sure the fish-bitch doesn't pay you enough for that. It's not like you walk around ready to sacrifice your own carapace in favour of his getting less dinged up but maybe you show your solidarity just god damn fine on your own. Talking about it is not what assholes like you do. You take another drink so you don't have to watch him process that.

You'd slide the bottle across the desk if it weren't fucking covered in paperwork. You hand it to him instead and he holds it down by his thigh as he thinks. You assume he's coming up with a plan. Slick always has a plan. That's one of the reasons he's your leader. That and you prefer the hours being a right hand man gives you. 

It's either die on the job or die for not taking the job he says. There's always exile you say, as if you're about to start singing the song. He rolls his eye at you. So we don't die you say. Or we do. What does it matter? Who's ever heard of an old agent?

You ain't dying he tells you. Not on his watch. He'll come up with something. You tell him that's what you've been saying. He tells you to stop saying it because he doesn't need you saying shit, he pays you to shoot your gun not your mouth. He hands the bottle back.

You're starting to get properly drunk. You can feel it in the softness of your eyes and on the thickness of your tongue. You probably won't realise how drunk until you stand up, but it's plenty drunk to be getting along with.

You ask him if he's actually worried. He asks you if you haven't ever heard of getting drunk quietly like a respectable gentleman. You tell him he ain't any kind of gentleman but you've made your peace with that. 

He asks you if you're in love with him. 

You need another smoke. 

Yeah, you tell him. Of course you are. What does that have to do with anything you ask. 

He tells you he wasn't sure. 

You roll your cigarette. Gives you something to look at. Then it gives you something to smoke. He asks why you never said anything. You ask him if he ain't never heard of getting drunk quietly like a respectable gentleman. He tells you he asked you a damn question and last he checked he was still your boss. You take out your matches and listen to the snap and hiss as you ignite the stick and hold it to the end of your smoke. You breathe deeply.

You tell him that you never felt any need to talk on the matter. He asks you why. You remark on the pleasantness of your current conversation and wonder why that would be. He tells you you're being cute in a way that means you're asking for the kind of kiss he delivers with a fist. Or a knife, more likely. 

You ask him why he suddenly cares what you think of him. 

He says he's always cared what you think of him and besides isn't it a big deal that you're in love with him? Nah, you say. It's easy being in love with him. Just like breathing. You blow smoke towards the roof to demonstrate. 

Would you stop acting like a fucking dramatic and get over here he tells you. You raise your brow at him. And why would you do that you ask. 

He tells you he's not made a habit of kissing across desks and he doesn't intend to start one. You tell him to go fuck himself. He glares at you. Do you not want to kiss me he asks. 

Of course you want to kiss him you tell him. You've wanted to kiss him for years. You don't see the point in acting on it. 

He stands up and comes to your side of the desk. He pushes paper out of the way so he can lean his ass on it right in front of your chair. You look up at him impassively. 

Well he asks. You tell him you're not leaving just because of an awkward conversation. He tells you he isn't asking you to leave. You tell him you don't mean now, from this office. You're not leaving the Crew because he happened to figure you out. He asks you why the fuck he'd want you to leave. You tell him you're his right hand man, you're not about to get demoted to cock-warmer. You look significantly at his crotch, not that far below you, then back up at him. 

You're such a fucking idiot he tells you.

He reaches down and steals your cigarette, taking a drag before he stubs it out. He wraps his hand around your tie, holding you still as he leans down to kiss you. You realise what his game is and you mean to just let him kiss you then get out of there before he can ruin anything further for no god damn reason, but Spades Slick is kissing you and you don't have it in you to play it cool. 

You reach for him right back and groan into his mouth. Whisky and smoke never tasted so good as it does on his tongue. You stand up, not breaking the kiss, and press yourself between his legs. Your height advantage is even more obvious than usual with him sitting on the desk. You break apart, breathing heavily and leaning your forehead into his.

You tell me to leave right now or I'm going to fuck you on this desk you tell him. I'm not telling you to leave he says. You look at him for a long, loaded moment before you shove the damned paperwork off his desk and push him back onto it properly.

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