miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-10-08 15:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, damia ravin, miles baines |
don't look so pissed off; we all lose the plot occasionally.
Who: Miles Baines & Damia Ravin.
What: Picking up her paycheck from the airship job & semi-addressing the last time they met.
Where: His apartment in the commoners district.
When: Last Friday.
Rating: Language.
Status: Complete.
The sun had been melting from the sky when Damia had left, leaving startling pink and orange residue across the horizon in its wake, but now it had disappeared from sight entirely, replaced by the moon and a navy soup of stars. She wasn’t going to admit where that time had gone, but she knew. Understood why she’d hesitated, why she couldn’t amble up that last remaining block to Miles’ home. It was petulance, mostly, some childish desire to not make an appearance and throw away hard-earned gil for the sake of getting what she wanted: less of Miles’ face. Only that wasn’t entirely true. For all the stupid emotions that had assaulted her over the last month and some, while the sight of Miles’ face pissed her off, it also made her -- for lack of a better, less ridiculous word -- happy. How that worked out, she couldn’t say with any certainty. But eventually one half of that equation won, and the corsair was soon (grumpily) making her way up to his door, wariness slowing her movements. She rapped thrice on that door and held her breath. (And readied a glare, just in case.) When he answered the summons, it was after quite a delay and with no amount of ceremony: Miles simply yanked the door open, said “Oh, it’s you,” as if they hadn’t agreed on this exact night for her payment, and then stalked back into his apartment, leaving the door swinging open wide for Damia to follow. It was a small and nondescript ground-level flat in the commoners district – this district had always been his stomping ground as a youth, and the tenements would have erred too far on the side of squalor. His various noble aliases would never be caught dead around the slums, but they could conceivably be spotted in the commoners district without dispute. His home was solidly middle-ground, middling-income, average and unexceptional in all respects: there was only one bedroom, one bathroom, a rather small den area, and a kitchen that was spotless only by virtue of it rarely being used. “Close the door after you, will you?” he called from inside. The blonde paused. Surely one might’ve come here with some small number of expectations as to how things would go down, and somehow she only came with one: knock, door opens, package received, Goodbye. Evidently, that was not what the evening -- or Miles -- had in store for her. She eyeballed the door but nevertheless stepped over the threshold, feeling every variation of strange and hesitant. As she did as told, she settled against the wood, seeking solace in it for a count of three, two, one. Exhale. “Such manners you possess.” While the words were delayed, the sarcasm rang clear. “It’s a wonder I didn’t swoon right there.” “Whoever said my manners were meant to cause swooning?” Miles shot back, re-emerging from the bedroom. “Swooning is incredibly inconvenient. The last time I tried, there were women scattered all across the floor, limbs sprawled, clothes in a state of disarray, petticoats showing. Took a Faram-fucked time to tidy up.” A beat, exactly the measure of his heart rattling in its cage. “Want a drink?” Some part of Damia wondered if that was meant to provoke, or if it was, in the end, just a joke. They often partook in this sort of banter, but it was difficult to gauge the mood considering the last she’d spoken with him face to face, hours away from Emillion in a tavern that didn’t make for the fondest of memories. She tongued the roof of her mouth, considering. Smiled, eventually. “It would depend on if you plan to return with it.” And that was her provocation. He went still at those words. Another man might have literally stumbled mid-step, his balance faltering as the words found their mark – but Miles, with his iron-clad control of muscle and limb and expression, simply stopped, like a machine abruptly powered down. And then he was moving again, swiveling to face Damia and marshaling his face back into place. “Dreadfully sorry about that, by the way,” Miles said through his teeth. (This was the last thing he’d wanted to address: the conversation he’d been dodging for an entire month, the pink Adamantitan in the room.) “I got… misdirected.” Things had been better with his back turned. Now, staring into his face as he pulled a poor excuse out of his ass, her smile wavered, but didn’t fade much. Her brows went up in ‘surprise’. “Is that so? And there I was, worried someone had actually whisked you away to take advantage of poor, drunk you. I am so relieved.” She shifted, to slide beyond him and locate a surface on which to perch herself on, eyes not daring to leave his as she moved. “I’ll take that drink now,” were her passing words, a few degrees short of icy. The metaphorical temperature plummeted in the room, and was almost enough to make him shiver, trying to shake off the awkwardness of this conversation and all its missteps. One particularly pressing question loomed out of the fog, however, even as Miles broke eye contact and detoured into the kitchen area, where he started raiding his (immensely well-stocked) liquor cabinet. There was alcohol of every stripe and colour and quality here: bitter Kerwonian beer, Ordalian snake wine, aged Valendian whiskey, sweet plum wine from Sako Island (brought over by Rin, once upon a time), and more. They were meticulously arranged by region, year, and vintage. One never knew which one of his identities might need to bring a tribute, a gift for the host. For tonight, however, he broke into some of the rum he’d kept from the airship job. It seemed fitting. And as he placed the tumblers on the table, that one question finally slipped its bonds and tumbled loose: “Why does it have you in such a fucking foul mood, anyhow? What’s it to you, Mia?” The ease with which Damia dropped into the armchair in the den might’ve convinced anyone that she was either being too familiar, as if she’d done this before, or too rude. Right now, she didn’t care much for what it looked like as she adjusted herself sideways, legs coming over one of the arms to create the perfect picture of confidence. In reality, she wasn’t feeling much of that. Her head tilted back, blonde cascading over the cushioned arm just behind. “Can’t a girl look forward to a drink and be disappointed when it doesn’t come back? Don’t be so snippy, Miles.” She made no indication of the awareness that she was being purposely obtuse. “Funny. I thought your usual callous abrasion had an extra piquant note of bitterness to it lately.” He filled the rest of their glasses with a sweet soda, then ice, and handed one mixed drink to Damia as he strolled past her. “Perhaps I misread,” Miles said smoothly as he settled down on his own sofa, one arm draped over the side just as casually (or mock casually) as she did. He could’ve just handed her the money and ushered her off on her way – the mime held no assumptions that this meeting would end the same way Ash’s had – but some ancient needling habit made him invite her in. A cat toying with its food, pinning the mouse and forcing it to stick around. While the appearance of the drink was welcome, as was the slow cooling of the glass, Damia wasn’t entirely looking forward to the rum, not as much as she should’ve been. She rapped a nail against the glass, appearing to consider his words. “You must have. You denied me the extra glass on my road to rampant alcoholism,” she confessed with some bitterness, not meaning a single word that she swallowed with a sip of her drink. “Clearly, it was only because I care so very much about your health, my dear. I was rescuing you from your own wanton, rampant alcoholic ways.” He watched her across the living room, his pale eyes cold. There was nothing in the den or on the walls around them to give any insight to Miles or his personality: no hallmarks of his taste, no personal affectations, no decoration. With some effort, he even managed to sweep his expression into a blank slate as well. It would serve him well here, he thought. “Does the rum satisfy? We worked very hard to get that shipment, you know.” The glass lowered, hovering at her lips. “It satisfies. But sometimes I prefer a little vanilla in my rum, for aftertaste. It soothes my profound unhappiness with daily life.” Were they going to keep playing at this game, pretending to be one way to mask their true selves? Damia would never turn down a game, if it brought her amusement. Other times, it all felt too hollow. “Hence the alcoholism, you see,” she added on before sipping once more. “Hmm.” The man seemed to chew over that latest fodder in their tart back-and-forth, as acrid as salt on the tongue – and it was always a back-and-forth, with Baines and his women – before leaning over the edge of the sofa. He reached for the endtable, pulled out the drawer, and started fishing around in its recesses before pulling out a small purse jangling with coin, and a folded promissory note. “Here. For services rendered.” Miles lobbed the bag over with an easy underarm throw, to have it bounce off her knee and to her torso, careful to avoid the hand that was holding Damia’s drink. “And then this,” he added, holding out the note between two fingers.. Damia gingerly picked up the purse to weigh it in her palm, not even bothering to feign the disinterest. Much of what she did was never for money. To her, it was about the spoils and the thrill of the job, of the chase if ever there was one. Even so, she wouldn’t turn down a good sum of coin if it meant she could keep her rundown apartment and still do as she pleased. Her eyes flickered back over to him. “Is that for me as well? How nice, I’ll tuck it under my pillow.” It seemed as if he was expecting her to retrieve it herself, but she moved not an inch. So Miles kept holding the note out, stubborn and patient, the paper wavering only slightly as his temper started fraying. “It’s the other half of your share,” he said with exaggerated mildness, drawing on every last vestige of mild-mannered Edward Brett, plodding accountant. Yet another identity on the shelf. “Do you expect everything to be delivered in nice, shiny gold coins? We have to spread the currency out a fair bit, move some of it via the banks. Raises fewer eyebrows than strolling in with a rattling bagful marked with the gil symbol, like some bank robber.” (Not that he’d ever turn his nose up at a bank job, however…) Miles waved the note again. A sigh. After setting the glass and purse down upon the floor next to her, the blonde uncrossed her legs, swinging them off and herself around until she was back on her feet. She kept her eyes on his face, not once breaking contact on the walk up, trying to read him. It was an impossible feat, most of the time. One hand drew forward, index finger and thumb grasping one corner of the note. “For the record, I am very sad that my bag is not covered with gil symbols,” the corsair announced, voice quieter now that she was in closer proximity to him. “I could make an exception.” His hand suddenly reached out and tightened on hers, briefly catching the woman’s wrist as she took the banknote, as if he were about to tug her down onto the sofa. “I’d find some seamstress to embroider it onto the fabric. Or I could practice my cross-stitching. You’d be amazed at the sorts of skills I’ve picked up.” Dry humour and sharp rejoinders that were only barbed for the sake of practice, whetting the conversation like oilstone on a blade. Then Miles let go. He leaned back and drained the rest of his glass, then dropped the empty tumbler onto the table as if the liquid had somehow personally affronted him. The contact had given Damia pause, but the hesitation didn’t show in her face. If his intention had been to get her heart skipping a beat, it worked. Note in hand, she was left feeling -- awkward? An altogether unfamiliar emotion, and it had her shifting in place, pondering on the next move. But what else was there to do but keep up appearances, to play her part as always? She re-folded the banknote back along its crease. “Excellent, we should compare notes on our craft skills. I’ll even knit you a lovely scarf to get you through the colder months.” “Fantastic. You do need some activity to keep you occupied until the next job – I’m aware how empty and dreary your life is without me.” Miles had risen from his seat in the meantime, levelling out the height (power?) difference between them. The man bit the inside of his cheek, as if there were something else he was on the verge of saying. He seemed frustrated; there was an erratic brusqueness to his movements and a tension knotted into his shoulders that hadn’t been there before her arrival. But a moment later, it was as if it’d never been there at all: Miles was chivvying his intolerable, (almost) unflappable guest towards the door. “You’ve drunk my liquor and robbed me blind, so all that’s left is to leave me to grieve over my wallet in peace.” A beat. “Unless you’d prefer to stay, but.” “But we’ve exhausted all possible conversation because all we seem to have, at the end of the night, is a business relationship,” Damia finished for him, pausing to retrieve her well-earned purse from the floor, blonde sliding off her shoulders and fanning around her face with the dip down – just in time to hide that flicker of emotion in her eyes. Upon standing, she tucked the purse into the inner pocket of the thin jacket she sported. A pause, and then she looked to Miles. “You and I don’t do social calls, and tonight is no different.” If he listened close enough, he’d be able to hear an echo of regret in her delivery. Before he could stop her, she was turning away, moving in the direction of the door. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Baines. Enjoy your grief.” We could, he thought, a fleeting idea that he reeled in before it could make its way out into the open. It wasn’t as if the casual fun ruined his working dynamic with Aisling – although certainly there was the mess with Audrey, and— No, it was a terrible idea. The job and the crew came first and foremost, no matter his appetites. Ever since childhood, they’d all told him that his fucking impulse control would be the end of him someday; the nuns had been wholly and staggeringly off-base about their charge in some regards, but they’d been quite right on that front. One fuckup was enough. Miles let her leave, locked the door once the woman was gone, and returned to counting piles of gil. |