Re: Capital: Jamie & Seven Friday night
Ftr, Seven would have squashed any attempts to negotiate a ride home in exchange for a fuck. Not that he was above sex as a commodity, the general idea of service for cash would have a been a pretty hypocritical problem for the owner for a strip joint to have, yeah? But there was historically (and that wasn’t an overstatement, technically, given that Tommy had pointed out that his thing-that-wasn’t-a-thing with Jamie had been going on basically since the last time the calendar had flipped over) more flex, more pull and less push, on Seven’s end of things. He would have given the ride and not thought twice about it, except if Jamie had made it a quid pro quo thing, and that would have toed a line for Seven that he didn’t want to cross.
“Did I say it wasn’t?” He asked in response to the athletics remark, with an edge that hitched his smile into a languid sort of smirk that came with slipping back into the familiarity of Jamie insulting him. “You can order whatever you want, it’s not like either of us are paying for it.” Which Seven would have argued meant it wasn’t Pretty Woman, since - looking beyond the fact that Seven wasn’t paying for Jamie or the food, or the hotel room, for that matter - he wouldn’t have minded any hard lines laid down about no fucking. Probably even would have been more sympathetic to it than Jamie, given he didn’t have the stamina of a twenty four year old. Or stubbornness, though just barely.
And the thing was, Seven wouldn’t have considered this him, either. That was what he did, sure. It wasn’t who he was inherent. He was comfortable because the business had been a huge part of his life for the majority of adulthood, yeah? “Fuck if I know,” he laughed, glancing upward as he stepped up to the counter and took the key card that the woman at the front desk had slid discretely across, then crossed the lobby toward the elevator without stopping. “I didn’t decorate the fucking place, just got it built.”