on a contact high ; pg-13
“You’ll have to excuse my associate,” Kurt elbowed David’s side for a good measure, “he tends to run his mouth whenever he deems it so.”
The man in front of them shrugs, and leans forward, stubbing his cigarette out on the lacquer table. The smell still wafts around the air, and Kurt tries not to wrinkle his nose at it.
“How long will you boys be in San Fran?”
“A week, 10 days, tops. Heading back home for Christmas.” Kurt looks over at David, who’s sporting a perfect poker face. They both didn’t have families to go home to.
Not anymore, at least.
The man nods, and picks up his brandy glass, swirling it around as he puts one leg up on the other knee, the epitome of in control. “I won’t be lenient if I find you two leaving before you finish the job, but you should know that by now.”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Good.” He stands up, and Kurt and David does the same, with the shorter one absentmindedly smoothing his tie down.
“Pleasure doing buisness with you two, hope to see you around,” Mr. Figgins calls out as he lets himself back into the party, waving the brandy glass as a form of goodbye.
They barely register it, as they sneak out the other way, opening up a small alcove to reveal a set of staircase going out into the kitchen, leading ito the back gardens of the estate.
“We’re fucked.”
“No we aren’t,” David mutters in reply, though he’s just as clueless as to how to pull this off as Kurt is.
“Songbird? We have to take down Songbird? Jesus!”
“I’ve got leads. Not very good ones, but it’s the best we got, given that we’ve gotta track down Warblers this time.”
“Don’t tell me-”
“Sylvester, 58.”
Kurt bites his lip, but turns his head and jumps over the fence, waiting for David to do the same. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Trust me, I don’t either.”
The man in front of them shrugs, and leans forward, stubbing his cigarette out on the lacquer table. The smell still wafts around the air, and Kurt tries not to wrinkle his nose at it.
“How long will you boys be in San Fran?”
“A week, 10 days, tops. Heading back home for Christmas.” Kurt looks over at David, who’s sporting a perfect poker face. They both didn’t have families to go home to.
Not anymore, at least.
The man nods, and picks up his brandy glass, swirling it around as he puts one leg up on the other knee, the epitome of in control. “I won’t be lenient if I find you two leaving before you finish the job, but you should know that by now.”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Good.” He stands up, and Kurt and David does the same, with the shorter one absentmindedly smoothing his tie down.
“Pleasure doing buisness with you two, hope to see you around,” Mr. Figgins calls out as he lets himself back into the party, waving the brandy glass as a form of goodbye.
They barely register it, as they sneak out the other way, opening up a small alcove to reveal a set of staircase going out into the kitchen, leading ito the back gardens of the estate.
“We’re fucked.”
“No we aren’t,” David mutters in reply, though he’s just as clueless as to how to pull this off as Kurt is.
“Songbird? We have to take down Songbird? Jesus!”
“I’ve got leads. Not very good ones, but it’s the best we got, given that we’ve gotta track down Warblers this time.”
“Don’t tell me-”
“Sylvester, 58.”
Kurt bites his lip, but turns his head and jumps over the fence, waiting for David to do the same. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Trust me, I don’t either.”