Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
He had no idea of the scope of Jamie’s internal conflict waging war on itself, just that there was something going on under the surface. More than he’d seen, since the Jamie he usually got was simmering with an impatience that matched his own, the need to not so much scratch an itch as claw at it furiously until it was ribboned and they were both sunk into one another like water. He could pick up on the subtleties and the obvious, like the looseness to Jamie’s limbs and the way that his gait shifted ever so slightly off what Seven remembered to be his injured knee as they made it into the elevator. He saw the presence of stuff, something churning inside the guy’s head as Seven caught the flicker of a glance at his face in the mirror, light as a triggerfish and darting away just as quickly. But he didn’t know what any of it meant, yet. Or if he’d find out. Hell, if it even mattered.
“I think it’s a considered a VIP thing, which is essentially a write-off,” he said, again with the absence of anything other than an idle acknowledgement that he didn’t concern himself with the details. In someone else it might have been entitlement, or maybe the fact that he didn’t really think twice about it was the entitlement. The point being that it didn’t weigh on him, as he opened the door to the suite that he wouldn’t have thought twice about spending money on, anyway. He decidedly didn’t voice the opinion that this wasn’t even his preferred room in the hotel. “Doesn’t always work out like this. There are always perks, but it was a different world in Vegas. Guess it’s easier to be a big fish here.”
He cut a relaxed shade of a grin over his shoulder as he led the way in, immediately shrugging out of his suit jacket and loosening the knot of his tie. The jacket he folded with casual care, slung it over the back of an armchair -- wrinkles weren’t a big concern when he was only putting it back on for the drive home, otherwise he would have had the whole suit picked up for overnight pressing. But the care was there, evident in the way he didn’t just toss the thing on the ground. Care for the nice shit that he had, and there was the difference in the fact it wasn’t getting ripped off him with the restless intensity that’d always existed between them. “I need a shower. If you want room service -” he gestured vaguely in the direction of the phone where it sat on a side table in the sitting area, next to a leatherbound menu. “Seriously, just order whatever.”