OOM: April 14, 2013 (4 days after Day Six)

Aug 20, 2010 21:59

Leaving L.A. isn’t quite as easy as Jack had planned ( Read more... )

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not_that_bill August 24 2010, 04:56:30 UTC
A man approaches from Jack’s left, walking at a casual pace, neither trying to blend in with the crowd or stand out. It’s a difficult line to toe. He knows better than to sneak up on Jack, but he risks spooking him if he approaches him directly. And if Jack bolts, he really has no reason to think he’ll ever see him again.

He relaxes before he takes a seat on the bench, putting a few good feet between them. Jack's reading a newspaper, and despite the fact that it's been many long months since he’s been home, Bill imagines he has his undivided attention.

If he hasn't run yet, maybe he doesn't plan to.

Eyes forward: "Hello, Jack."

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trigger_man August 24 2010, 04:57:23 UTC
Jack senses someone walking toward him, and though he doesn’t look up as the man approaches, there’s something about the way he moves that seems familiar, though he can’t quite place it. With every step the man takes Jack’s nerves get more and more tense, waiting for any overt sign of a threat, though he’s trying to tell himself he’s just being paranoid.

The man sits down next to him, and Jack’s eyes snap up to his face when he talks.

“Bill. What’re you doing here?”

It’s not the most friendly greeting in the world; probably colder than Bill deserves. It comes out that way before he can stop and let reason take over from his rattled nerves, though.

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not_that_bill August 24 2010, 04:57:53 UTC
It’s no worse than Bill expected.

“I didn’t come to take you back.”

Jack should know that, but it doesn’t hurt to say it. He reaches inside his jacket, and pulls out a manila envelope.

“I thought maybe you could use these.”

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trigger_man August 24 2010, 04:58:29 UTC
Jack takes the envelope but doesn’t look at it until he gets it open; he’s too busy examining Bill’s expression.

He doesn’t need to pull anything out if the envelope to see what’s in it; it’s pretty obvious just from looking in. Bundled cash, the familiar dark blue cover of a U.S. passport, and a stack of plastic cards that he’s guessing are other forms of I.D.

He looks back up at Bill’s face, his expression wary. “Who’s this from?”

There are two possible sources that he can think of, and he’s not sure that either is entirely welcome.

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