DBY Bill, Nic
The morning after the party.
He hadn't drunk, smoked, snorted, or otherwise ingested anything last night -- unlike most everyone else -- that could possibly still be lingering in his system, making him feel this good. In fact, there is every reason in the world not to feel this good, considering that he now has to move, his flat is the equivalent of a charnel house, and Susan has left three messages on his voice mail already this morning.
Nevertheless.
He's practically whistling while he works, for fuck's sake.
Idiot, he thinks. But he had slept some -- enough, anyhow -- with Keira's scent surrounding him and the feel of her skin against his, and that apparently goes a long way toward making life practically perfect.
Aside from the two dead blokes in my flat, he reminds himself. And the fire. And also, right, someone trying to kill me. And Bloom.
A lot of it still doesn't make sense, and normally loose ends like that bug the shit out of him. He hates not knowing why something has happened almost as much as he hates not knowing if something happened at all, and there are lots of unanswered why's hanging over his head right now.
Nevertheless. He can feel the smile on his face.
He'd left Keira still in bed, because not only had he still had to hike to go get his car, but he had to go somewhere and get some fucking clothes. He hadn't been willing to leave the 'stang parked outside her flat. The chances of anyone making it were slim in that neighborhood, but it was a fairly distinctive car, and slim and none were not the same. He hadn't wanted to risk it. He now has a garment bag in the back seat of the stang filled with three crisp new suits (one black, one navy, and one a deep, luxurious forest green which he never would have chosen himself, but which the salesman -- who had reminded Bill more than a little of Nic -- had insisted that there was no color on earth that would go so well with Bill's eyes, and Bill had finally given in out of sheer impatience when the bloke had started to wax poetic), two pairs of charcoal colored trousers, and six shirts in various colors (half of them white). There's a bag wedged half under his desk filled with jeans and t-shirts and socks and pants as well. The suit he's currently wearing is dove grey, and ridiculously expensive, but Bill supposes it beats the hell out of running around naked.
The money isn't a problem; three years undercover allows for quite a handy little nest egg to build up. But it's bloody inconvenient not to be able to go back to his flat. Not that he really needs anything from there. He sort of wishes he'd thought to have Susan take his guitar to the station, though.
There's a newspaper folded in half and wedged up under the flatscreen monitor on his desk, which he'll browse later for apartment listings and whatnot. He'll be more fucking careful with his address this time, that's for certain.
He still needs to get rid of the car, too, and he fucking likes that bloody car. He can see the neccessity of it utterly, while still hating the idea of trading it in. He's been in the 'stang for years now. It's practically a part of him. He'll probably end up with a sodding Crown Vic. Wouldn't that be just his luck.
And he has too much shite to do today.
Car, he scrawls on a post-it note. Also: flat. Then he adds: Keira, and he's smiling again, because he's clearly fucking insane.
He hadn't drunk, smoked, snorted, or otherwise ingested anything last night -- unlike most everyone else -- that could possibly still be lingering in his system, making him feel this good. In fact, there is every reason in the world not to feel this good, considering that he now has to move, his flat is the equivalent of a charnel house, and Susan has left three messages on his voice mail already this morning.
Nevertheless.
He's practically whistling while he works, for fuck's sake.
Idiot, he thinks. But he had slept some -- enough, anyhow -- with Keira's scent surrounding him and the feel of her skin against his, and that apparently goes a long way toward making life practically perfect.
Aside from the two dead blokes in my flat, he reminds himself. And the fire. And also, right, someone trying to kill me. And Bloom.
A lot of it still doesn't make sense, and normally loose ends like that bug the shit out of him. He hates not knowing why something has happened almost as much as he hates not knowing if something happened at all, and there are lots of unanswered why's hanging over his head right now.
Nevertheless. He can feel the smile on his face.
He'd left Keira still in bed, because not only had he still had to hike to go get his car, but he had to go somewhere and get some fucking clothes. He hadn't been willing to leave the 'stang parked outside her flat. The chances of anyone making it were slim in that neighborhood, but it was a fairly distinctive car, and slim and none were not the same. He hadn't wanted to risk it. He now has a garment bag in the back seat of the stang filled with three crisp new suits (one black, one navy, and one a deep, luxurious forest green which he never would have chosen himself, but which the salesman -- who had reminded Bill more than a little of Nic -- had insisted that there was no color on earth that would go so well with Bill's eyes, and Bill had finally given in out of sheer impatience when the bloke had started to wax poetic), two pairs of charcoal colored trousers, and six shirts in various colors (half of them white). There's a bag wedged half under his desk filled with jeans and t-shirts and socks and pants as well. The suit he's currently wearing is dove grey, and ridiculously expensive, but Bill supposes it beats the hell out of running around naked.
The money isn't a problem; three years undercover allows for quite a handy little nest egg to build up. But it's bloody inconvenient not to be able to go back to his flat. Not that he really needs anything from there. He sort of wishes he'd thought to have Susan take his guitar to the station, though.
There's a newspaper folded in half and wedged up under the flatscreen monitor on his desk, which he'll browse later for apartment listings and whatnot. He'll be more fucking careful with his address this time, that's for certain.
He still needs to get rid of the car, too, and he fucking likes that bloody car. He can see the neccessity of it utterly, while still hating the idea of trading it in. He's been in the 'stang for years now. It's practically a part of him. He'll probably end up with a sodding Crown Vic. Wouldn't that be just his luck.
And he has too much shite to do today.
Car, he scrawls on a post-it note. Also: flat. Then he adds: Keira, and he's smiling again, because he's clearly fucking insane.