Thursday Night
The evening of the Open Call, the Bill/Johnny Convo, and the Bill/Orlando Convo.
Bill pulls the Mini half onto Johnny's drive and half on the grass. There's plenty of room at the moment, but once he's ready to go, he's not interested in getting blocked in. In his experience, when he's ready to get away from the DBY crew, he's ready now.
Keira's at school -- philosophy tonight -- and Bill's glad to be the first to arrive. He wants to talk to Johnny alone for a few. He's not even sure what the hell he wants to say. When he tries to order his thoughts, they just jumble up further. Lack of sleep or lack of focus or the unwillingness to look too closely at anything, or maybe all of those. Bill doesn't know. He hates the way it feels not to be able to figure out his own motivations; he hates the fact that he's almost used to it even more.
He likes his orderly, methodical thought patterns, is comfortable with being linear to the point of rigidity, and he's too fucking old to learn to deal with flyaway thoughts.
"It's lack of fucking sleep," he mutters aloud, and gets out of his stupid purple car. He uses the key fob to lock it (chirp!), then gives the interor of the car a quick once over to be sure everything's as it should be. He's a little disgusted by how harmless it appears, actually. The only thing visible from outside is a stack of CD's in the passenger seat. The Mini could belong to a bloody teenage girl.
"The fucking thing should belong to a teenage girl," Bill grumbles, and circles around the back of the car to be sure the boot is shut tight. It's a habit left over from the 'stang (the boot sometimes didn't quite catch) and he's totally aware that it's unnecessary and verging on paranoid. He does it anyway.
His laptop, casefiles, both guns, and practically every piece of clothing he owns are in there (excepting the suits, two of which are hanging up in the loo at DBY, while the other two are in Keira's closet), and he can live with feeling like a paranoid wanker for the peace of mind it gives him to be sure the Mini's boot is secure.
It is, of course.
"Paranoid wanker," he snorts, and turns away from the car, circling around the house on the walk to go up to the front door. There's a gate on the side of the house right by the drive, but as early as he is, Bill doesn't want to scare the shite out of Johnny.
Especially given the thing earlier in the editing room (another thing in the editing room, that is, and Bill thinks me might have to start labeling them mentally, Editing Room Incident A and B), which is still fresh in Bill's mind. It takes a little mental shuffling to get his brain around the idea of Johnny as someone he ought to be physically wary of.
But just because someone chooses not to fight, doesn't mean it's because they can't.
Bill knows it, but it's been a while since it applied to anyone he knows. He guesses three years undercover inthe drug underworld -- where you proved you could fight over and over, sometimes even when you didn't really need to, because the second you stopped proving it, you became a target -- will do that to you.
And Johnny moved like a bloke who'd seen his share of fights. Brawls, Bill would guess if he had to, because of the shove, the hard and fast way Johnny had moved in on him, ready and willing to bring it up close and personal. Though Bill isn't actually worried about seriously fighting with Johnny. He can barely imagine a situation in which it's likely.
He pounds on Johnny's front door with the side of his fist, and digs his fags out of his pocket with one hand. When there's no response by the time he's dug his lighter out of his jeans he pauses, fag dangling from between his lips, and knocks again before lighting his cigarette.
When there's no response after the third drag, he exhales roughly and considers.
There are lights on inside (though the guesthouse was dark when Bill pulled up, no telling where Orlando was out to) and Bill can hear music faintly. Johnny's car is parked on the street.
Bill shifts thoughtfully and takes one last drag on his fag before flipping it into the street, making a mental note to ticket himself later.
The knob turns freely in his hand, and he opens the door silently and steps inside, giving one last tap on the door as he does so. He smells the weedy-bitter-green smell of pot as soon as the door swings open.
"In here," Johnny calls from out of sight (the living room, Bills guesses from his memory of the layout), and Bill jumps a fucking foot. "Orlando?"
"Nah, mate," Bill manages, and circles the wall that separates the the foyer from the livingroom.
Bill pulls the Mini half onto Johnny's drive and half on the grass. There's plenty of room at the moment, but once he's ready to go, he's not interested in getting blocked in. In his experience, when he's ready to get away from the DBY crew, he's ready now.
Keira's at school -- philosophy tonight -- and Bill's glad to be the first to arrive. He wants to talk to Johnny alone for a few. He's not even sure what the hell he wants to say. When he tries to order his thoughts, they just jumble up further. Lack of sleep or lack of focus or the unwillingness to look too closely at anything, or maybe all of those. Bill doesn't know. He hates the way it feels not to be able to figure out his own motivations; he hates the fact that he's almost used to it even more.
He likes his orderly, methodical thought patterns, is comfortable with being linear to the point of rigidity, and he's too fucking old to learn to deal with flyaway thoughts.
"It's lack of fucking sleep," he mutters aloud, and gets out of his stupid purple car. He uses the key fob to lock it (chirp!), then gives the interor of the car a quick once over to be sure everything's as it should be. He's a little disgusted by how harmless it appears, actually. The only thing visible from outside is a stack of CD's in the passenger seat. The Mini could belong to a bloody teenage girl.
"The fucking thing should belong to a teenage girl," Bill grumbles, and circles around the back of the car to be sure the boot is shut tight. It's a habit left over from the 'stang (the boot sometimes didn't quite catch) and he's totally aware that it's unnecessary and verging on paranoid. He does it anyway.
His laptop, casefiles, both guns, and practically every piece of clothing he owns are in there (excepting the suits, two of which are hanging up in the loo at DBY, while the other two are in Keira's closet), and he can live with feeling like a paranoid wanker for the peace of mind it gives him to be sure the Mini's boot is secure.
It is, of course.
"Paranoid wanker," he snorts, and turns away from the car, circling around the house on the walk to go up to the front door. There's a gate on the side of the house right by the drive, but as early as he is, Bill doesn't want to scare the shite out of Johnny.
Especially given the thing earlier in the editing room (another thing in the editing room, that is, and Bill thinks me might have to start labeling them mentally, Editing Room Incident A and B), which is still fresh in Bill's mind. It takes a little mental shuffling to get his brain around the idea of Johnny as someone he ought to be physically wary of.
But just because someone chooses not to fight, doesn't mean it's because they can't.
Bill knows it, but it's been a while since it applied to anyone he knows. He guesses three years undercover inthe drug underworld -- where you proved you could fight over and over, sometimes even when you didn't really need to, because the second you stopped proving it, you became a target -- will do that to you.
And Johnny moved like a bloke who'd seen his share of fights. Brawls, Bill would guess if he had to, because of the shove, the hard and fast way Johnny had moved in on him, ready and willing to bring it up close and personal. Though Bill isn't actually worried about seriously fighting with Johnny. He can barely imagine a situation in which it's likely.
He pounds on Johnny's front door with the side of his fist, and digs his fags out of his pocket with one hand. When there's no response by the time he's dug his lighter out of his jeans he pauses, fag dangling from between his lips, and knocks again before lighting his cigarette.
When there's no response after the third drag, he exhales roughly and considers.
There are lights on inside (though the guesthouse was dark when Bill pulled up, no telling where Orlando was out to) and Bill can hear music faintly. Johnny's car is parked on the street.
Bill shifts thoughtfully and takes one last drag on his fag before flipping it into the street, making a mental note to ticket himself later.
The knob turns freely in his hand, and he opens the door silently and steps inside, giving one last tap on the door as he does so. He smells the weedy-bitter-green smell of pot as soon as the door swings open.
"In here," Johnny calls from out of sight (the living room, Bills guesses from his memory of the layout), and Bill jumps a fucking foot. "Orlando?"
"Nah, mate," Bill manages, and circles the wall that separates the the foyer from the livingroom.