Roxie (Wren) Maheu (ex_theredlig387) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-09-23 03:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | han solo, roxanne |
Who: Hal and Wren
What: A plan for the duck vigilanter escape
Where: Hamartia 203
When: Wednesday night, just before the meeting time
Warnings: None
Wren had spent the day trying to figure out just how much herself to be at the vigilante meeting, the one she realized was a badly planned mess, but that she intended to go to regardless.
She had decided on something familiar to Nobody and Robin, just to be safe, and she’d donned a pale blonde wig, short and practical if she ended up in a fight, a leather skirt and a form fitting gray shirt with long sleeves. It wasn’t what she would wear for work, but it was close enough that she should be recognizable to her friends. Her makeup was all almond shaped eyes and cheekbones and lipstick carefully downplaying her generous mouth. She had the new electric knife Blytech had made her strapped to her thigh. It would have to do.
She had the location, given to her by the one who called himself Corbinian, and she knew Eve was going to be outside at 12:40 (though she had her doubts about the safety of that arrangement after talking to Hal). Now, there was only waiting, and she was very bad at waiting. She paced, the floor of the living area, her boots making repetitive sounds on the ceiling of the apartment below.
Hal’s day had not been leisurely. With the honey tongue and the lazy smile, it was easy to imagine him lounging around in his disaster crater of a room, doing nothing but sleeping in. Generally, however, Hal worked very hard. He was very good at what he did, and he got up early on weekdays, meeting Charlie for a late breakfast after the other man finished whatever his morning exercise routine was (probably something involving a lot of running, or shooting at things, or perhaps running while shooting at things). After that they both went to one of their garages, and Hal worked on one or the other of their vehicles while Charlie studied maps and made suggestions on drive shafts and window tinting.
Hal was quite proud that he’d managed to manipulate Charlie into thinking that the mask meeting was a good place to get a job, and he hadn’t planned on telling him he didn’t have a paying customer. Instead he washed up in the early evening, skipped the usual beer and game of pool with friends, and wandered upstairs to tap on Wren’s door. He was in a good mood, that pore-open mood you get from a hot shower, and he smelled like cologne and felt comfortable in his worn-in jeans.
The knock at the door surprised Wren, and she stopped mid-pace, wondering if she’d give Eve her apartment number and forgotten. But no, only Cassidy had that, and she really hoped Cassidy hadn’t decided to show up right now, because that would be inconvenient. She tugged on the ends of the wig, ensuring the pins were going to hold, and she made her way to the door, tucking her key in her boot in case it was Eve.
There was no peephole on her door, so she cracked it open enough to look out, the chain still in place, and she relaxed (visible even through the small sliver of space) when she saw that it was Hal. She didn’t register that he might be coming to talk her out of going, not really; Hal didn’t seem like the type to admit to worry. But she didn’t doubt he’d lecture her about it, all while acting like he didn’t care if she went or not. She undid the chain, and she tugged the door open a little wider and leaned against the frame. “Look what the cat dragged in,” she said softly in French, letting her gaze drag over him before settling on his face. He looked good, and he smelled good, and it was very bad timing for that combination of things.
He smiled at her. If he was going to lecture, he wasn’t going to do it from a podium. He strode in two steps, stopping short of colliding with her and her door, obviously comfortable in her space but not moving to make it his. Hal was, truly, the essence of comfortable. “Dat would make you de one doin’ de dragging,” Hal said, taking a wild stab at that verb and hoping the guess was right. He shook his head slightly. “Dere you goin’ again wit’ de fancy French.” He waited expectantly for her to let him in, eyes drifting up to the wig and back down to her eyes. Hal wore his thoughts on his face, and he disapproved of the get-up, but he acknowledged her right to wear what she would.
Wren caught the disapproval on his face, but she didn’t take it as a disapproval of her, and so her feelings weren’t hurt by it. She let her hand rest on his chest a moment, fingers spread with a sort of lazy, unspoken knowledge. “The duck has to at least look like the other ducks,” she told him openly. “I don’t want to make myself a findable target if I can help it.” It was the truth, and it was practical, and she slipped her hand away from his chest and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open for him in invitation. She walked into the living room, and she turned to watch him as she leaned against the arm of the fluffy blue couch. She didn’t drag him, no, not physically, but her gaze on him was candid and beckoning. She put her booted feet on the couch cushion with a grace that was incongruous with her attire, the end of the knife band just visible at the hem of her skirt.
Hal wandered in, one hand in his jean pocket, and closed the door behind him. The silly blue couch made him smile (mostly because the mind’s eye generally painted her naked on it, and if that didn’t make you smile, what did?) but he acknowledged the invitation without accepting it. He had that sort of “I’m here on business” sort of look in his eye, the one he’d worn when he’d been preoccupied with the road and she’d been talkative cargo. “Came to talk at you ‘bout dat,” he said, would-be off-hand. He studied some little knick knack off at an angle. “Was talkin’ at Charlie, and seem like we at odd ends tonight.”
She watched the hand in his pocket as he spoke, as if that alone surprised her more than anything else. If she was honest, she’d admit she didn’t really expect him to ever come knocking on her door. But he was here now, and he was staying back, and he was acting serious, and that made her quirk a brow and tip her head to the side as she watched him. She considered slipping off the couch, but like she had during the job, she acknowledged his distance, and she respected it. “Odd ends?” she asked, though she was already trying to figure out whatever the odd ends were before he described them. She’d talked to Charlie now, and she knew he was cautious - more cautious than Hal was. “About the ducks?”
“Sure.” Oh, so casual. “Ends at odd. Not so busy. Not a day off. On de market, as you sayin’.” He regarded her attire once more. “An’ you just talkin’ ‘bout dem ducks, Ah’m thinkin’ yo’ convention--” he enunciated it well but the last syllable never made it into the air, the Cajun was too thick, “--is tonight.”
She watched him, watched the casual stance and listened to the casual words, and she drank up the sound of the strangely accented syllables as she always did. He sounded like home but not, and she looked up at his face on the last word. “Oui,” she said, her eyes going a little wide with understanding. “You want to work it somehow,” she said plainly, voice soft and without reproach. She stood from the couch, her skirt covering the knife again, and she looked at him. She knew he wouldn’t sell anyone out, not him, even if she gave him the location - which she guessed was what he wanted. “How?”
“Ah,” he said, pleased she had caught on without him having to spell it out. “We be in de area, Ah’m thinkin’. An’ when you feel like up and leavin’, why, we be--” he paused, searching for the phrasing. “Available.” Sharp nod.
“On the way out, or the way in?” she asked, closing the distance between then and standing directly in front of him. She was listening, sharp and attentive, and it was more than obvious that she could turn off the seduction when the need arose, though the sensuality was still there, beneath the intelligence. “There’s the fake location, where everyone will be at 1, and then there’s the real location after that. I don’t know how close or far apart they’ll be, and I don’t know how anyone is getting from one to the other,” she said. It didn’t occur to her that this was anything more (or less) than what he said it was; a job, a way to bring in a good day’s pay. She looked at him quietly for a moment, considering. “If anyone has any idea of who you’re driving, it’s going to be risky.” Understatement, softly spoken.
“Way out.” As ever, Hal didn’t retreat from her approach. “I don’t know who Ah’m drivin’ either, do I? Not until dey get in.” He looked at her encouragingly, but not because she was closer physically, but because she was analyzing the situation and, hopefully, accepting the out he was offering. “Give me dat second location when you know it, and me an’ Charlie be in de area when it all goes south.” He seemed fairly certain it would, but he didn’t seem concerned about it. He was, though. It was in the back of his eyes.
“How?” was the first thing she asked, because it was the most practical question. “The Bat is smart, Hal, there’s a very good chance there won’t be a way to contact you from the first location.” She paused, and she reached out and brushed his shoulder, smoothing fabric under her fingertips as she thought, the gesture soothing somehow. “But assuming we can, oui? Assuming that I can get a call to you or a text with the location, how are you going to know when it’s time to come get them?” The them was very intentional. Hal would keep people safe, if it came to it, and she really was more concerned about the real masks than about herself. “I can get them to you, but how do you know when to come?”
“We circle de area,” Hal said, unconcerned with the contact as it was her way of communicating and he had no objection to it even when neither were being especially affectionate. His arms stayed akimbo and his right four-fingers stayed in his pocket, and his shoulders were relaxed. “Ah’m bettin’ if you all start runnin’ out like jackrabbits, dat’s probably when leavin’ is a good idea.”
She looked up at his face, taking the measure of his words and the truth behind them. In the end, she trusted him. It was an instinctive thing, trusting him. She wasn’t silly enough to think you knew the measure of a man from sleeping with him, but there was something about him that was so immediately unguarded that she knew what mattered, and what mattered is that he could be trusted. She stretched up on her tiptoes and she kissed his cheek, and she nodded, her cheek rubbing against his. “Promise you’ll stay away if it gets too dangerous seeming. What’s the price, and how many people are you willing to transport?”
“Car we’re workin holds mebbe...” he looked briefly at the ceiling. “Cram ‘bout eight ‘sides me. Got ‘nother vehicle but no tellin’ where Charlie gon’ be, don’t count on more. We talk about price if people get away safe.” If he landed himself a rich vigilante, he’d be very surprised, but he’d make them pay, no question. He was pleased at the kiss, though he had not particularly expected one for his trouble, and reached around and patted her on the ass.
Eight. It was a good number, and she nodded and then looked over her shoulder at his hand. When she looked back at him, she was smiling, feeling a little better than she had when she was pacing earlier. She stepped back then, and she held out a hand to him. “You have a deal,” she said, and there was more than a little thankfulness in her voice. She would never ask him to do this, never expect it of him, but it increased the chance that people would make it out, and she was very, very grateful. “I’ll text with the location,” she told him, her gaze candid in it’s appreciation. She understood the charging, the fact that it was a job for him, but she was still appreciative.
He laughed at the business-like little gesture, and he shook her hand. His palm was warm and wide and firm. “Deal.” He didn’t let go of her hand, hauled her close again, and gave her another pat on the rump. Because he felt like it. Then he let her go again before she could be either huffy or over-affectionate about it, and strode off toward the door.
She smiled, but she didn’t follow him. She just watched him go, letting herself be distracted by the way he looked in those old jeans, if only for a moment. And then he was gone, and it was time to get ready to go. Eve was waiting.