fic: take it (saints row, michael & casey) | PG13
A drabbley alternate first meeting thing between Casey (the boss) and Michael (a Saints OC).
take it
saints row, michael & casey
729 words
PG13
summary: Once upon a time, Michael Rainer meets the head of the Third Street Saints in a bar.
warnings: Gratuitous use of the word 'fucking'.
Michael steps away from the bar, one-foot-after-the-other, and makes his way across the crowded space over to the table and waiting chair. He doesn't sit. Instead he stares down the person who called him, whistled and clicked his tongue at him, like a dog, pinches the bridge of his nose and crosses his arms and tries to appear respectful.
"Something I can do for you?"
Casey Monroe is a sight to behold. There's not much cold to Stilwater, no ice in the city's neverland-summer veins, but Michael is pretty sure there's something in Casey's eyes that's going to freeze him straight to the bone if he looks too hard: they're hard blue, amused, fucking sadistic. He's wearing a loose dark top and straight-leg jeans; under the table, Michael notes deep purple heels.
He's only a little bit shaken.
"Lemme buy you a drink." Michael doesn't pay much attention to gossip, but if there's one thing he knows, it's that every rag on this side of the coast fawns over the head of the Saints' thick Cockney accent. It's smart and dirty and everything about it says that this conversation is his-- if it's even a conversation at all. Michael knows that if he says anything, it had damn well better be what Casey wants to hear.
Unfortunately, it usually takes money to get him to sit down and play nice. Lots of it. "Sorry," he wrinkles his nose a bit. "I don't drink." And I don't want to play.
Casey's grin is wide and amicable, cutting across his face like a clean incision. "Sit down, love. I'm gonna buy you a drink."
It's so far from a suggestion Michael nearly says 'yes sir'. Instead, he raises his eyebrows in an 'okay, if that's how we're going to do this' gesture and pulls out the chair in front of him, sitting down slowly.
Casey looks around, flicking a hand, and within seconds-- seconds-- a waitress has made her way over to tend to them (him, really). He watches Casey glance at her. "A Manhattan, and--?" His hand, previously resting on the table, opens and gestures to Michael questioningly.
He looks to the waitress, briefly, annoyed. "Water."
Casey chuckles, rubbing a hand over his face. The waitress says something perky that Michael doesn't catch and walks off. He fixes the man across from him with an impatient look.
"I'm actually working."
"Really?" Casey links his fingers, stretching his arms out with a harsh little laugh. "You seemed really fucking busy."
"Socializing is a lot of what I do." Every word feels like he's stepping on eggshells: Casey makes him edgy and he doesn't know why, not for any of the reasons he should, and it's an effort to keep the words behind his teeth where they are. Casey seems content to shrug off that answer, idly rapping his knuckles against the table.
"I have a proposition for you."
It's interesting, listening to him say that word, proposition; it sounds confident and self-assured, every syllable enunciated in that biting Cockney inflection, just in case Michael wasn't paying enough attention already. He shifts back in his chair. "Is this a job proposition or the sort of proposition that ends with me getting my brains bashed out by the cops?"
Casey laughs, outright laughs at him. Like he's so fucking funny. "Little bit o' both." Their drinks come just then-- he's pretty sure they've been served before people who've waited ten minutes-- and are set down on the table. Casey takes a sip of his, fingers curled elegantly around the glass, while Michael pointedly ignores the glass of water and stupid fancy little slice of lemon they've left on the side of it because what the fuck.
He sighs through his nose, glancing around the bar. "I don't like being pushed around. Or bribed. My job pays pretty fucking well."
"And I totally respect that, love." Casey's glass thumps gently down against the table, and he waves a hand, grinning. It's the sort of grin that says 'how nice for you'. Michael finds himself crossing his arms again, defensively. "I get that you want to be treated like a human being from time to time, yeah? What I want to do is put you on top of the fucking world. And maybe you'll shoot some people down for me while you're there."
-
take it
saints row, michael & casey
729 words
PG13
summary: Once upon a time, Michael Rainer meets the head of the Third Street Saints in a bar.
warnings: Gratuitous use of the word 'fucking'.
Michael steps away from the bar, one-foot-after-the-other, and makes his way across the crowded space over to the table and waiting chair. He doesn't sit. Instead he stares down the person who called him, whistled and clicked his tongue at him, like a dog, pinches the bridge of his nose and crosses his arms and tries to appear respectful.
"Something I can do for you?"
Casey Monroe is a sight to behold. There's not much cold to Stilwater, no ice in the city's neverland-summer veins, but Michael is pretty sure there's something in Casey's eyes that's going to freeze him straight to the bone if he looks too hard: they're hard blue, amused, fucking sadistic. He's wearing a loose dark top and straight-leg jeans; under the table, Michael notes deep purple heels.
He's only a little bit shaken.
"Lemme buy you a drink." Michael doesn't pay much attention to gossip, but if there's one thing he knows, it's that every rag on this side of the coast fawns over the head of the Saints' thick Cockney accent. It's smart and dirty and everything about it says that this conversation is his-- if it's even a conversation at all. Michael knows that if he says anything, it had damn well better be what Casey wants to hear.
Unfortunately, it usually takes money to get him to sit down and play nice. Lots of it. "Sorry," he wrinkles his nose a bit. "I don't drink." And I don't want to play.
Casey's grin is wide and amicable, cutting across his face like a clean incision. "Sit down, love. I'm gonna buy you a drink."
It's so far from a suggestion Michael nearly says 'yes sir'. Instead, he raises his eyebrows in an 'okay, if that's how we're going to do this' gesture and pulls out the chair in front of him, sitting down slowly.
Casey looks around, flicking a hand, and within seconds-- seconds-- a waitress has made her way over to tend to them (him, really). He watches Casey glance at her. "A Manhattan, and--?" His hand, previously resting on the table, opens and gestures to Michael questioningly.
He looks to the waitress, briefly, annoyed. "Water."
Casey chuckles, rubbing a hand over his face. The waitress says something perky that Michael doesn't catch and walks off. He fixes the man across from him with an impatient look.
"I'm actually working."
"Really?" Casey links his fingers, stretching his arms out with a harsh little laugh. "You seemed really fucking busy."
"Socializing is a lot of what I do." Every word feels like he's stepping on eggshells: Casey makes him edgy and he doesn't know why, not for any of the reasons he should, and it's an effort to keep the words behind his teeth where they are. Casey seems content to shrug off that answer, idly rapping his knuckles against the table.
"I have a proposition for you."
It's interesting, listening to him say that word, proposition; it sounds confident and self-assured, every syllable enunciated in that biting Cockney inflection, just in case Michael wasn't paying enough attention already. He shifts back in his chair. "Is this a job proposition or the sort of proposition that ends with me getting my brains bashed out by the cops?"
Casey laughs, outright laughs at him. Like he's so fucking funny. "Little bit o' both." Their drinks come just then-- he's pretty sure they've been served before people who've waited ten minutes-- and are set down on the table. Casey takes a sip of his, fingers curled elegantly around the glass, while Michael pointedly ignores the glass of water and stupid fancy little slice of lemon they've left on the side of it because what the fuck.
He sighs through his nose, glancing around the bar. "I don't like being pushed around. Or bribed. My job pays pretty fucking well."
"And I totally respect that, love." Casey's glass thumps gently down against the table, and he waves a hand, grinning. It's the sort of grin that says 'how nice for you'. Michael finds himself crossing his arms again, defensively. "I get that you want to be treated like a human being from time to time, yeah? What I want to do is put you on top of the fucking world. And maybe you'll shoot some people down for me while you're there."
-