miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-01-17 12:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, aisling wilde, miles baines |
a little less conversation, a little more action, please.
Who: Aisling Wilde & Miles Baines
What: Two friends get a bit too thoughtful for comfort after the museum job, before what's meant to be a celebratory tryst.
Where: Her home.
When: Backdated to November 25th.
Rating: Foul mouths.
Status: Complete!
She’d felt a little bad about it all, really; while the last heist had been salvaged, she’d been distracted the whole time, and then there was the shit with Leradine, which had only added to her worry. Once shit had been squared away, she’d taken off for home, not even bothering to stop and chat with Miles. Not that she was expected to – they weren’t a thing, not the way that she and Cian used to be, but still. She was sleeping with the guy – when he wasn’t trying to beat Cian in the manslut of Emillion contest - so he deserved more consideration than that. Ci had kicked her out earlier, so she’d meant to kill some time before heading back over - if he was asleep, he couldn’t bitch. She was still stressed, but she was sure that a visit to Miles would help with that; it usually did. She’d arranged to meet with him at her place - familiarity was comforting, and sticking to post-game plans was as close to normal as she was going to get.. Miles had said evening, which could mean anywhere from suppertime to midnight, so she’d cleared out the table and chairs in the dining room and had Neil attach her ribbons to the ceiling - this room had vaulted ceilings, making it a good place to practice for the gala. She hadn’t had much time what with everything that had gone down, and she needed to memorize her routine. A knock at the door heralded one Miles Baines fidgeting on her doorstep. When they’d all parted ways, he’d separated from the group to go stash the Crimson Coeurl. (Whereupon the paranoia seeped in: what if he was jumped at the last minute, mugged on his way to the safehouse? He was a cat burglar, for Faram’s sake, not a brawler.) But the man made it safely in the end, locking the diamond away in a safe and a half-dozen different machineries, for protection and keeping until the foreign buyer could take it off his hands. Their post-heist carousing always had a different tone to it, depending on the night. The airship job had been all merry and raucous drinking in a bar; this time, on a cold rooftop, it had been more ambivalent. A mingled euphoria of success, the pent-up anxiety of failure, the adrenaline of the job itself—a heady toxin of emotions, some of which had Miles looking at his ex-girlfriend a bit too closely, then at Damia. So: something less complicated for this night, perhaps. Another knock. She was up in the air when the first knock sounded, and it took a moment to roll herself out of the ribbon. The second knock sounded as she hit the floor. Less than a minute later, she was opening the door to find Miles standing there. “You could have let yourself in,” she informed him, turning around, clearly expecting him to follow. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t. She didn’t look behind her to see which one he was choosing today. “Far too lazy for more lockpicking tonight,” he remarked. “All tapped out. I did, however, bring whiskey.” Miles underwent a type of self-imposed asceticism as the time drew closer to a heist; with those obligations complete and snipped, however, he was now free to indulge. He shut the door behind them, one boot shoving it closed. He trailed Ash into the dining room; this house was far too large for just one woman, the gutted remains of the Wilde dynasty sprawling around them. Sometimes he wondered what that might be like, having a father with footsteps worth following. “Thanks for dealing with Audrey tonight,” Miles said. “Didn’t expect her condition to be quite that bad.” The ninja had tried to hide it from the rest of the group afterwards but it had been unavoidable, particularly when the rescue began and Rin was left to look after her. If he ended up leaving the whiskey, Ash would put it with what was left of Tynan’s stash - after his anniversary, she wasn’t touching the damn stuff for a good long time. “Whatever,” she said at the mention of Leradine. She hoped that whatever it was the ninja had wasn’t the same thing as Ci; she didn’t want to be overexposed to the fucking plague even if she was planning on heading back to Cian’s once Miles was gone. It wasn’t like he ever stayed the night. “Everything got done in the end.” They’d even managed to break Loch back out, although how the hell Loch had gotten caught in the first place was beyond her. Miles had stalled in one of the doorways, shoulder jutting against the wood as he watched Ash advance through the house (and, yes, admiring the view as she went). “You seem preoccupied,” he said. It was a frank remark, finally putting name to something that had seemed off with her all evening. The two mimes had worked together enough over the years for him to pick up on her behaviour, reading the woman’s body language—tonight it was something askew like a machine with a hiccup in its gears, rippling through its everyday operation. She stiffened slightly before forcing herself to relax. It wasn’t like she’d been overly distracted; that he noticed was worrisome. If he could notice that, then what else was he likely to notice? Not that she had much to hide from him - he knew she worked for the syndicate, had likely figured out how high up she was. He never asked about it, and that was one of the reasons they got on so well - he didn’t talk about unnecessary things. Except, apparently, tonight. “Been a long day,” she said dismissively. “And night, so far,” Miles conceded, finally detaching and following her in, uncorking the bottle and taking a long drag. False noblesse had been thrown out the window along with his fake identities, loosening his collar as he went. Had it been any other night and had he been caught in a different, less-contemplative mood, Miles gladly would’ve let the subject drop and simply attended to the entertainment of the evening. But something kept nagging and itching at him, and so he found himself drifting back: “Can I count on you for the next job? You’ve been unavailable quite a bit lately. Misadventures at the Ruby.” A beat. “And some out-of-town misadventures as well, from what I hear.” “Should be,” she replied, entering the sitting room and falling onto the couch. She motioned for him to sit wherever. How he’d heard about her run attempt was beyond her, but not surprising; it was part of the job to keep an eye on what the Merry Women were up to. “So,” she started. “What’d you hear about my little jaunt out of the country?” That seemed so long ago. Now, she couldn’t fathom trying to leave, not while Cian was dying. She’d given him her word she wouldn’t run again, and, for now, it wasn’t even a consideration. She still wanted her freedom, to finally be over Cian and away from here. “That it seemed like you tried to run. But came back.” No more than that: Miles delivered the bare facts, though they were slightly off. His head cocked with curiosity as he sank onto the sofa beside her and held out the bottle. “Is Emillion really so terrible?” he asked, musing. “Emillion is fine,” she said, waving away the bottle; she didn’t feel like drinking on good days, let alone bad days. Besides, the last time she drank, she’d ended up kissing Cian while sitting on her father’s coffin. Sobriety was the way to go for the next few months. “Some shit went down and I wanted to get out. Neil brought me back.” “Short leash, then.” Seeming pleased enough to keep the whiskey to himself—stingy to the end, as always—Miles took another sip before setting it aside, his hand wobbling slightly from unsteadiness. After a pause: “I was always dragged back by stern-faced nuns in too-tight wimples. Neil seems like he’d be slightly more pleasant.” Ash snorted. An unfortunate fact of her life, really. She should have gotten used to it by now, but nope. “I’m sure you sweet talked those nuns into getting into less trouble.” She pulled her legs up and curled into the corner of the couch. “The guilt trips Neil gives never fail to make me feel like a miserable hume. Cian knew that when he sent Neil after me.” She fell silent for a little while, thinking. Why was it that, whenever shit like this happened, she always went back and forth between blaming Cian and blaming herself? But even now, she was thinking about Cian, how he was, if he was okay. “Y’think it’s a prereq to be fucked up in some way to be in this guild?” They’d fallen into a thoughtful lull, and for once, Miles was content to let it continue—sinking into the conversation from each their separate sides of the couch. He gave her question some extra consideration, reeling back through a mental inventory of all his contacts in the Thieves Guild. “Our guild isn’t our guild,” he said, fingers drumming on the arm of the sofa. “That’s the first warning sign, I believe. We’re all liars and frauds the moment we step into the inner circle, becoming a thief rather than a mere bard. So the entire guild is filled with false faces, even our specialties aside.” Miles waved his palm across his own face, indicating the malleable shift of his own expression. “It makes for a certain personality type. Perhaps that’s part of it.” “Maybe.” It was definitely true - two different guilds, having to remember which is which and who is who. Fucking exhausting at times. One of the reasons she mostly only associated with Thieves. She didn’t have to be careful about what she said. Well, within reason, anyway. “You ever think about just leaving it all behind?” Miles knew what the easy answer would be, all posturing and flair. But after mulling over it, the unexpected honesty came slipping out instead: “Sometimes. I’ve given into it every so often – you know my sporadic absences, sign up for an airship crew and leave for a few months. But I always wend my way back, unfortunately. My apron strings are tied to Emillion, for better or worse. I grew up here, and my brother’s here, and my parents.” A half-second too late, he realised that that might come off wrong, like probing an old wound. And on his end, Mile was betraying vulnerabilities that he normally guarded under lock and key—but they’d known each other for years, and never had the combative bravado that dogged his relationships with other women. Sitting here in the skeleton of Tynan Wilde’s former home, perhaps he owed it to her. She nodded, understanding. “I can try to leave all I want, but something” he’ll “always drag my ass back. The only way out is in a body bag.” The last part was mumbled, more a reminder than anything else. After all these years, she couldn’t understand why she was letting it bother her now. It was frustrating and depressing, and sitting here, with Miles, it just felt all that more daunting. Her entire life was going to be dedicated to this. “I wanted to get away from him.” She didn’t specify who; Miles was a smart guy. He’d figure it out. “And now, I can’t even think of leaving because Faram likes to fucking laugh.” “So he does.” Ash’s pensive mood was contagious. Miles was on the verge of asking why she couldn’t think of leaving now, what had changed – continuing the conversation, meandering down this path they’d inadvertently taken – but something recoiled at the thought, a sharp little twinge in his gut, shying away like a skittish horse. With a small, frustrated grunt, he started unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling back his shirtsleeves. “Not to get us off track from this enjoyable wallowing,” Miles said, “but tonight was meant to be a celebration. And I do remind you that I can take your mind off it—though temporarily. And not to mention, with tonight’s cut, we’re all going to be almost a thousand gil richer.” He spread his hands, as if to ask: what else could you want? Ash laughed. It was a welcome segue, even if it wasn’t the smoothest. She wasn’t keen on continuing this line of thought, and he was right; tonight was supposed to be a celebration, even if she didn’t feel like it. The distraction would probably help, and by the time they were done, Ci would be asleep. He couldn’t toss her out then. “Not on the couch,” she said, standing. “Table’s that way.” |