Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
He wanted to hit the redial button, jam his thumb against the screen of his phone where it sat in the display clipped to his dash. That was the irritation talking, the indignant denial that he couldn’t help even knowing, logically, that it was exactly fucking what Tommy had wanted to inspire with the remarks about Jamie. Because it wasn’t about the kid, yeah? Alright, he’d taken to glossing over mention of the guy when he could get away with it, even though they both knew that Tommy knew him well enough to call bullshit if he’d ever wanted. But Seven’d started to get sick of the pointed arch to Tommy’s eyebrow when Seven came home with his hair sweaty and his everything else wrecked, clothes rumpled and all the lines of his body screaming sated.
So he wanted to call back, wanted to make his retorts, and he only thing that kept both hands on the wheel as he nosed the Jag around a corner was the need to keep that smug fucking look off Tommy’s face, the one that would have been audible even over the phone. He wasn’t about to give him the fucking satisfaction, yeah? And he knew that it was just the fact that the guy had put Jamie in his head, but as Seven glanced up the street he saw a pedestrian on the sidewalk who even looked like him: the right height, the way his hair fell against the nape of his neck. Hell, he even walked like Jamie, which led to the internal sidebar of Seven realizing with a vague disquiet that he knew, confidently, how the guy walked.
The car was quiet as it crept along the street and Seven’s thoughts had turned the same, and he’d almost managed to forgot about the actual guy walking along the sidewalk in favour of thinking about the version of Jamie in his head, until he glanced out the window as he went to to pass the guy and let out a short, sharp bark of disbelieving laughter.
He pulled the Jag to a stop up ahead at the edge of the curb, brake lights glowing red in the early evening dark as he rolled down the window. He was in business mode: the car, the suit, both absurdly expensive but not obnoxious about it on the spectrum of wealth display through which he vacillated. Seven slung one arm along the edge of the window and leaned forward a little, waiting for the guy to make it up alongside the car.
“Hey,” he called, a crooked grin notching into place as he glanced around at the empty street to make sure there was no one else in earshot. “Know any good bathhouses around here?”