albinomilksnake | Open RP: Smutty nonsense

Job security. Like she's ever needed a thing like that in a world this bloody big.

But...

The question of 'how much' is met with numbers she'd list under the category of Bullshit if not for the briefcase she's been careful not to let go of since the moment they'd dropped it off in her hands.

Chloe pauses, drums a few fingertips against the tabletop.

"All right. But nothing weird, yeah? I do the same job I've always done." Which, thankfully, gets the go-ahead from Marlowe, even if the woman seems less than pleased about being given an ultimatum.

While he continues to study them both through the course of these negotiations, he ultimately defers to Marlowe and keeps any further remarks to himself until the deal is struck. By reflex, he stands as she takes her leave from the table.

Then, once she is well out of sight, he turns his attention back to Miss Frazer.

"You will be given a room. I'll arrange to have your belongings moved."

"Uh..." There's not much, anyway. A few suitcases full at best, less than possibly, if she includes the clothing she had on when she'd arrived. "Seriously I can just make a quick run for it. Hardly enough to send a crew over for."

But she scoots herself back out of the chair, resets her center of balance in heels too high for comfort's sake, and glances about at the exits before adding: "Don't suppose you lot mind covering the cost of an airplane ticket I won't be using now."

If possible, she's proven herself even more opportunistic than he, or even Marlowe, thought to give her credit for. It earns her a tight smirk from Talbot.

"You will be compensated for your trouble. And now if you'll come with me," he says, nodding at the door directly behind her, "we'll see that you're made comfortable before attending to any other business."

Why is it that everything he says sounds ominous?

"Right, sure. Lead the way, mate," Christ, he can't be much older than her, if that. Weird to think he's so far up in the ranks when the lackeys they've been bossing about are at least twice his age. "I'll be right on your heels."

Which is why, once they're on the move, she's curious enough to ask: "Have a real name?"

"You may call me Talbot." It is not perhaps a definitive or satisfying answer, but it's the only one she's likely to get.

He pauses, but only to open the door and follow her through before politely taking the lead again and setting off briskly into the labyrinth that makes up the Underground.

Not an answer, but fine, she thinks, cocking her head and trailing off behind him in an effort to keep up.

"That's not a real one, you know."

"It's the one you will use." His voice isn't threatening, but it's stern. She has a problem with authority--it's a habit she'll be broken of if she intends to live long enough to see her first paycheck.

They've taken several turns off the first corridor before they reach their destination. When Talbot sees to the door, he leaves the heavy iron key in the lock.

The first couple of months weren't the best Frazer's known in her life. One regular job was done for Marlowe and Talbot before they bothered to teach her the ropes-- etiquette being her least favorite for the entirety of the first month, until inoculation was introduced in the second to build up an immunity to the drugs the Order's fond of using. Minor doses, standard procedure, but the illness of it always stuck with her for hours after.

She and Talbot never got on well before the shots, honestly. He'd been through them all before, though, offered a few quiet comforts during the worst bouts. (admittedly it was possible they were more out of obligation than concern) Recently she only goes in twice for it every seven, has studies six days a week and combat work every five. Bloody exhausting.

So Frazer tends to spend whatever time she can scrounge up sprawled out in her room. Nearly halfway through her third month and she's well beyond the point of wondering if she's made a mistake. It only dawns on her, pawing idly at the pages of something large of Tolstoy's that she doesn't give much of a damn about, that it's her nineteenth birthday in exactly three days.

"Frazer." Huffed out over the book's cover. That's what she goes by now. Still sounds strange to her ears. "Happy birthday, Frazer."

....Nah.

In these three months, Talbot's feelings toward Marlowe's new project have graduated from obligatory acceptance to grudging respect. He never expected Frazer to adapt easily to the regimented lifestyle they'd thrust upon her, and she hasn't. But she also hasn't complained, not in any way that would raise concern over her bolting.

It is late when he comes to her door, well past the cut off for lessons and the evening meal long since cleared from the dining hall. He puts his ear to the door and raps softly on the aged oak.

While they don't see eye to eye on much, it's not really a social club, being stuck underground with an endless list of things to adjust to. It means that despite their differences, she's not against Talbot stepping in for a visit when opportunity permits.

"Come in."

No 'mate', no 'yeah'; she's steadily getting the hang of all this.

She's a quick learner. If she can stand to play by the rules, she'll go far here. But that's something Talbot sensed in her from the start, isn't it? It's what stirred a bit of jealousy into him the night she was inducted.

Talbot opens the door, leaning in just far enough to locate her. "I've decanted a vintage port. I thought you might like to join me."

She's curled up on the bed, still sporting her riding boots, cropped black jacket and tailored trousers. It's easy to spot him over from over the top of a book.

"I don't see why not." Chloe sits up, scoots towards the edge. "Feeling a bit thirsty tonight, anyway."

Not for water, either. Shot day tomorrow.

"I had a feeling." It's said knowingly as he brings himself through the door alongside the decanter and two glasses, and he sets the lot down on the bedside table before turning back toward the door just long enough to close it quietly. While not strictly prohibited, this sort of informal fraternization isn't encouraged, particularly with such a newly anointed member of the family. Officially, it's a time for purification and study. No distractions.

"You're in for a treat."

It works a smile out of her, at least. You don't get in the business without liking the thought of breaking rules, and there's something satisfying about Talbot-- who doesn't dare look in another direction unless Marlowe tells him to-- sneaking off for a drink. Reminds her that he's still young, too, despite how he might act in public.

"Where did you even find it?"

"Our organization has one or two property assets here in London. You might be shocked by the treasures turned up from basement cellars." He glances up from the second glass, his hand steady even as he fills it without looking, and he passes off the other to Frazer.

She takes it, drinks eagerly (it's been three months, all right, not a bloody year) and exhales slowly as the warm, sweet scent sticks to the back of her tongue, her throat. Christ, that's good.

"--and you got permission to keep some of it for yourself."

"'Borrow' is a more appropriate way of putting it," Talbot says, setting the decanter aside with care and then straightening up beside the bed, his own glass already at his lips. "We're family here. What's ours is mine is yours."

"Hate to break into you, darling," she scoots over on the mattress to give him room to sit, takes the opportunity to snag the decanter and pour herself another glass."but most families don't live underground poisoning one another or taking combat training courses."

"Most families," he agrees, with emphasis.

Talbot doesn't acknowledge the empty spot, however. He has discipline enough that the choice isn't even a conscious one. Coarse and unpolished though she may be, Frazer is still a lady, and this is a lady's bed.

"Oh come on, sit down," she huffs, going in for another long sip. Hard drinks she's had, but never anything that tastes half as good as this; she can't help but be greedy.

"I won't bite."

He doesn't look entirely convinced of that. But with a more direct invitation, he finally moves to settle down beside her on the mattress.

"It's good, isn't it?" Not that he has to ask. She's burning the stuff like it's petrol.

"Mmhmm."

It's not strange to find criminals with wealth in their pockets, but the wealth the Order has access to...it's beyond normal. Beyond bizarre. They've got an entire subterranean lair at their disposal beneath London of all places; there's no way to wrap her head around what kind of work that takes. Or connections.

"You don't miss it? Being up there, having a normal life."

It's the most personal question she's put to him so far, and it catches him a bit off guard. But it doesn't take long for Talbot to suspect that this is less about him and more about her--she did give up a life out there. It's only natural she would seek some solidarity.

He finishes off his glass and rocks it between his fingers, staring down at it for a moment before tilting his head to look at her.

"Before this one, I never had a life to miss."

Hell if she knows what that means, but she's got a few guesses. He's at least giving her something to work with; she'll take it.

"Suppose that makes it easier, yeah." Honestly, given the luxuries he and Marlowe enjoy on the regular, she supposes she hasn't got much room to complain, either. Or won't, eventually, if this keeps up.

"Does it get any easier?" Frazer asks, pauses to take another long sip, "All this training, I mean."

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