night fox

nikolaj 'fox' beck 29, he/they, transmasculine jolly rogers

[nightfoxbeck]

the night fox | nikolaj "fox" beck

{Avan Jogia, He/They, Transmasculine, 29}  We just saw {Nikolaj Beck} entering {Camden Market}. I heard through the grapevine that their loyalties lie with the {Jolly Rogers}, and that they also go by {Night Fox}. Be careful, they work as a {thief} and are known to be {sarcastic}, {defensive}, and {arrogant}. However they’re also known to be {loyal}, {compassionate}, and {charismatic}.

Full Biography

Headcanon Details

Skeleton

Timeline (coming soon)

Pinterest

Playlist (coming soon) – {Ro, He/Him, PST, drugs, drug use}

[nightfoxbeck]

The truth was, he knew it was a fake. Well, actually, the truth, if you wanted to split hairs about it, was that Beck hadn't stolen it for it's worth, really. He'd stolen it out of habit. And because he was bored. And because it'd been there, available to him and he liked it, a little. Essentially, for something to do.

And while he was at it, another truth he didn't care to think too closely on, was his unlikely friendship with this charged, fantastic and dangerous woman. A woman who, by all counts, they probably wouldn't usually be friends with. Possibly even shouldn't be, given their distaste for unnecessary death, and Charlie's apparent love affair with it ("you should maybe... you know, talk to someone about that," they'd drawled at her once—she'd of course only laughed, precisely as they expected she would).

But there'd been an odd sort of magnetism between them, and despite what may or may not be Beck's better judgement, they kept finding themselves drawn back to her, with lingering concerns, but little actual regrets. Because the truth, if he were really being honest, was that Charlie's was a friendship both difficult to explain and yet entirely uncomplicated. They admired her sharp mind and brassy confidence, the way she made them laugh, and the way they had bonded over binge watching bad movies with utterly unrealistic and cliche renditions of their respective jobs.

Beck gave her a wry smile, very subtly bringing their arm now looped through hers, closer to their side. "Apologies, Senpai," they intoned with an arched brow. "You have. But frankly, I just thought it was cute." A shrug.

"How are you?" They made a show of checking their watch. "Murder anyone yet today? Clock's a tickin'." A joke, clearly, and one that if they were overheard by anyone, would be interrupted, most likely, as an entirely different joke, but a joke nonetheless.

Sometimes, it helped to laugh about it, to pretend it was all just pretend.

[la-petitmortss]

"Whoever said orange is the new pink was seriously disturbed," she laughed, but looped the scarf back around their neck, leaning into the touch and affection. It was a significant part of her that she would never openly admit to, this need to touch and be touched, almost as if she needed it to confirm that she was here, that she hadn't gotten too lost in her own mind, that someone recognized this. More importantly, that someone knew all of her (or at least most) and did not turn away. But those were far too maudlin and morose thoughts for this surprisingly lovely day - so Charlotte brushed them aside without a second thought.

"Splendid, darling, I am wonderful - despite having to brave the unwashed masses to meet you here, this lunch spot better be worth it." She glanced at Niko out of the corner of her eyes, smirking. He checked the watch and then asked, something she knew they were not entirely comfortable with - joking of course. That was how they managed, the two of them, laughter and ease and bad movies and, very rarely, an echo of truth. "Of course not, I am not bound by such mundane things as mortal time. Through, and you'll be proud of me, I valiantly resisted the urge to trip several obnoxious tourists earlier."

"And you? How was your morning?"

[nightfoxbeck]

Beck's laugh was easy and bright, and it reminded him, unnecessarily, of all the reasons he liked being with Charlie. It wasn't something he could explain without running into the tricky subject of Charlie's troubling comfort with murder, but he had to believe that people weren't defined solely by what they did for a living. It's a... thin argument, but it's one they make anyway, because they're no psychologist, and frankly, a psychologist is undeniably what Miss Charlotte needs. They can't help her there, but they can enjoy her surprising warmth, her casual, electric touches. They can laugh at her obnoxiously endearing front of hubris, her drawling and sarcastic sense of humour.

Their brows lift into their hairline. "Wow. I am proud. You did what even I couldn't. Though I did catch the pompous geezer before he fell, and he thanked me for my kindness. Obviously, he had no idea that in the kerfuffle I took his wallet, so I should have been thanking him." They smirk. "Naturally, lunch is on me."

"And I make no promises about the spot itself being worth it—your standards are hard to keep up with, precious. But as your friend—ill-advised as it may be—it is my duty to keep you humble. And exposing you to the 'unwashed masses' is my way of doing that. You have me to thank for your growth as a better person. You're welcome."

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

"I am glad to hear that." Because for all he could gloat and talk, he wasn't really interested in frivolity. It wasn't to say he had never dated, but more often than not, his job remained the priority and only very few people could accept that. His longest relationship had been with a woman who too lived for her job and it was the fact that they lived mostly like roommates that ended up breaking them up.

"Fi- Ten minutes?" It was a bit concerning that he had not noticed, but then, his focus had been on trying to appear interested in his coworker's stories. "Why would you look at me? You don't plan to steal from me, do you?!" Having lowered his voice, the accountant took another sip from his glass before giving his sides a pat. "If you do, I'll deduct it from your next pay check, for the record," he motioned toward the patio. It was a great time for a smoke break, he figured, and they'd have an easier time chatting there, or avoiding prying eyes and ears.

"How have you been doing? Been doing anything interesting lately?" A particularly challenging house to break in, or a bigger heist, who knew? That wasn't his thing. He knew that if he had ever to step further into a life of crime, it would be because he lost his damn cool and strangled someone to death. What a great thought to have.

[nightfoxbeck]

If Langdon were a dog, Beck would think he'd be something like a Doberman. Tall and poised, intimidating and arrogant, but sort of simple, just a little dumb. In the way that even the smartest dogs are a little dumb, thanks to the irrefutable nature of being dogs. Their needs are simple, their expectations pretty stagnant, and they spend too much time barking and licking their own groins to have a clear, unbiased grasp on reality.

Narcissus is 'glad to hear' Beck doesn't have a 'crush' on him, and though it certainly started as a harmless joke, Beck's pretty sure there's a nugget of true relief in there. The arrogance is frankly hilarious, and almost endearing in a fucked up, backwards kind of way, but there are plenty of other reasons Beck has to keep an overtly comfortable distance away from people like Narcissus with any kind of relationship, platonic or otherwise—for instance, Beck has plenty of their own intimacy issues to wrestle with; they hardly need to complicate matters with the train car sized baggage of someone else's.

Still, they follow the suit towards the patio; it's not like they have anything better to do, really, and they did come for him, as it were.... though they better not say as much aloud, given Narcissus' ginormous head will probably hear an innuendo in it.

"I have no such plans, don't you worry. I'm telling you, you're a thief as long as I am, the observation thing becomes a habit. Fly on the wall is sort of just how I see the world, now." They shrug.

As they follow Narcissus out the doors, the cool evening air is a refreshing reprieve from the stuffy atmosphere of the 'party'. Beck inhales deeply and it feels like a tonic. "You know something, no, actually. Things have been kind of dry, as of late. Which you'd think in our, er, industry, might be a good thing, like no news is good news, et cetera. But what can I say, I'm easily bored." Another shrug.

The truth is, the busier they keep with high stakes tasks for the gang, the less time they have to think about the hound-shaped demons yapping at their heels, and the better they sleep at night. As it stands lately, they spend much of their days committing habitual, petty theft, and several hours into the night and early morning, doing self-administered safe-cracking time trials, until their tremors become too debilitating to continue and they grow tired enough to sleep through the cacophony of voices in their head.

[amcrtentias]

Camden Market at this time of day is busy, the pathways around the stalls thick with a mixture of hapless tourists and new transplants who have yet to learn any better. Bil belongs to neither group, of course, but a friend of theirs has a booth selling vintage clothes, so they’ve made their way down to the Lock to trade a couple of prints for a shirt they’ve had their eye on.

Their purchase (if you can call it that) complete, all Bil can think about is getting the fuck away from this crowd as efficiently as possible - a feat more easily accomplished with a stony expression and the sound of metal blaring tinnily from their headphones. The wide berth people give them means they are able to spot Beck as he helps himself to a passing woman’s belongings a little further down the street, but the observation is Bil’s alone, and god knows they aren’t going to tell anyone.

It doesn’t take much effort for Bil to catch up with them, though they’re careful to maintain their even stride so as not to give the pickpocket away. “Nice scarf,” Bil comments mildly, as they fall into step beside them, “Not sure it matches the rest of your outfit though.” It looks expensive, a silky, impractical thing with the kind of pattern that would surely be considered tacky if accompanied by a lower price tag.

Inclining their head in the direction of the café on the corner, the line of Bil’s mouth twitches into something that might almost pass for a smile, “Going my way?”

[nightfoxbeck]

Beck likes crowds; crowds make you invisible, and in Beck's line of work, being invisible makes you safe.

Sometimes—though not often—Beck makes the mistake of thinking about how this particular kind of safety is what suits them best outside of work, too. It is a comfort, a blanket of security they have come to crave. Invisibility is a tonic, one that soothes their nerves and trembling fingertips. Sometimes, they forget not to think about what that might say about them.

Today is not one of those times, however. Today, he swerves through the crowds feeling at ease and just as he should be, a fish swimming upstream with a purpose that's more instinct than consciousness. But they're at peace, putting one foot in front of the other, knowing this is where they're meant to be, regardless of where they are heading. Of what inevitabilities may or may not lie ahead.

Bil materializes beside him in the way they often do—quietly and modestly—and Beck's smile dimples his cheeks like sunlight cresting a hill and spilling eagerly into the valley beyond. Beck finds Bil's presence and companionship reliable, steadying. Where his friendship with Charlie is all sparks and barbs and braying laughter, what he shares with Bil is coffee in a quiet morning, unassuming smiles and exchanges left mostly unspoken. Since Beck's first arrival in London and their inauguration into the Jolly Rogers, Bil has become a comfortable staple in their life. A friendly, neighbourly face. Though they have gotten ink done from Bil several times over the years, they now find themselves visiting the parlour simply for passing company, or a quick, grounding hello.

Beck chuckles at Bil's not-quite-criticism of the scarf, and they give a little scoff. "You're right. I'll have to match it with a bolder print, next time," they tease.

And at the question, and Bil's nod towards the cafe, Beck twirls their hand in a vague 'lead-the-way' gesture. "Always, mate." Even after all these years, the British colloquialism feels strange and too flat on his tongue. "Well, unless you're planning on getting arrested or attending a T-Swift concert, in which case I'll probably pass."

[nightfoxbeck]

Do you plan to stay in London for good, or would you return to Denmark if you could do so safely?

That's... a hard one. Because it's hard to think about, not because it's necessarily hard to know the answer. I'd like to think I could maybe go back eventually... but at the same time, there's nothing really... there for me? Far and I didn't spend that much more time in Denmark than anywhere else, with all the travelling we did over the years, and without him... I really don't know what I'd do there? I don't know. It's just hard to imagine life there without him.

Besides, here is where my family is now. So, at least for the foreseeable future, here is where I'll stay.

[nightfoxbeck]

what are your favorite bits to do ?

I feel like you probably mean 'bits' as in jobs, (or maybe it's just more brit lingo I'm not familiar with), but literally all I can think of when I hear 'bits' is, like, sexual. Junk. Parts. Gonads, etcetera. Like 'mind your bits'!

And to that I'd say, gosh, at least take me to dinner first!

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

He gave the other a look. The night fox. Ha, he supposed that was a nickname that commanded some sort of respect but the only respect he had for the lad laid in the impressive amount of stolen jewels, items of value, works of art the other brought back to their headquarters. If something had value, there was no doubt Beck could get his hands on it.

So, when the other replied to him, looking all too smug, Langdon didn't serve them with too much snark. "Tired of pretending you're not a jackass yet?" A hand slipping into his pocket, the finance advisor took his eyes off of him for a moment, scanning the crowd. His coworker had vanished, at least for now. And yet, the rest of the crowd seemed eerily similar. White greying men, in their best suit and tie. Long gowns for the ladies.

"For the record, for how long have you been watching me? This is a concerning misuse of your time, isn't it? Don't you have better things to do or have you finally decided to confess on a crush?" If you were wondering still how he had earned his nickname, search no further. If someone in London was to be the poster boy for self praise or arrogance, it had to be him.

[nightfoxbeck]

'Tired of a pretending you're not a jackass yet?'

That earns a surprised, bark of a laugh from Beck. Still, there's a tinkling to its sound, amused and bright, and they can't be mad about it, because it's kind of a little true? Maybe? On the one hand, they wouldn't normally describe themselves as a jackass, but on the other... well, he does feel a bit like he's pretending, when he's being charming and friendly and breezy. Because anyone who knows the real Beck at all, would know that they are a lot of things, but 'breezy' isn't one of them. They play pretend at being laid back and effortless, when in fact, there's a lot of forethought that goes into just about everything they do, and even more effort funneled into just keeping themselves in check. To not worrying about the past that will surely catch up with them eventually, to not replaying their father's death—murder, may as well call it what it fucking is—over and over again against the blackness of the backs of their eyelids.

To hiding the fact that deep down, they're actually a bit of a basket case, now. Or, at the very least, are putting 110% of their energy into not becoming a basket case, while they teeter precariously on the edge, twenty four fucking seven.

They smirk at the question, the way a vaguely concerned frown ripples Narcissus' posh and proud brow. At the 'crush' comment, they roll their eyes. "Please, you're so not my type, Cissy,"—a nickname they'd picked up after hearing Charlie use it, and finding it too fucking delightful not to repeat, though they'll gladly give her credit where credit is due— "And dunno. Maybe five minutes? Ten? Thing is, when you're a thief, watching is just sort of what you do, you know? Keen observation is the key to most things, my friend."

[nightfoxbeck]

[la-petitmortss]

Niko would be paying for lunch, she decided, as she wove through crowds of tourists with barely disguised disgust, but she could understand why the thief thrived here. Charlotte trailed them for several blocks, a little game she liked to play with herself to see if/when he would notice her. After then minutes she came to the conclusion that either they'd gotten lazy and unaware, or had joined in on the game and wanted to let her think she was winning.

But even that grew tiresome after a while, so she caught up to them, slipping her arm through theirs and pressing a light kiss to their cheek. "That scarf is a fake," she said by way of greeting, "and not even a good one, look -" she tugged it from Niko's neck to show them. "Hames? Really? Haven't I taught you better?"

[nightfoxbeck]

The truth was, he knew it was a fake. Well, actually, the truth, if you wanted to split hairs about it, was that Beck hadn't stolen it for it's worth, really. He'd stolen it out of habit. And because he was bored. And because it'd been there, available to him and he liked it, a little. Essentially, for something to do.

And while he was at it, another truth he didn't care to think too closely on, was his unlikely friendship with this charged, fantastic and dangerous woman. A woman who, by all counts, they probably wouldn't usually be friends with. Possibly even shouldn't be, given their distaste for unnecessary death, and Charlie's apparent love affair with it ("you should maybe... you know, talk to someone about that," they'd drawled at her once—she'd of course only laughed, precisely as they expected she would).

But there'd been an odd sort of magnetism between them, and despite what may or may not be Beck's better judgement, they kept finding themselves drawn back to her, with lingering concerns, but little actual regrets. Because the truth, if he were really being honest, was that Charlie's was a friendship both difficult to explain and yet entirely uncomplicated. They admired her sharp mind and brassy confidence, the way she made them laugh, and the way they had bonded over binge watching bad movies with utterly unrealistic and cliche renditions of their respective jobs.

Beck gave her a wry smile, very subtly bringing their arm now looped through hers, closer to their side. "Apologies, Senpai," they intoned with an arched brow. "You have. But frankly, I just thought it was cute." A shrug.

"How are you?" They made a show of checking their watch. "Murder anyone yet today? Clock's a tickin'." A joke, clearly, and one that if they were overheard by anyone, would be interrupted, most likely, as an entirely different joke, but a joke nonetheless.

Sometimes, it helped to laugh about it, to pretend it was all just pretend.

[oh-the-hcrrcrs]

Location: A charity event organized by Blackrock Time: Friday evening

He had been spending the last thirty minutes discussing the state of their branch's finances with one of his senior colleagues, a pin from the company on his lapel, and a glass of wine in his hand. If he had recognized a few clients among the guests, and another few familiar faces, he hadn’t had the chance to go speak to any of them just yet.

Unfortunately, there were people he couldn’t tell off, and these old hags unfortunately fit the bill. They were the sort to make a lot of fuss about nothing, and he had to be discreet about his distaste for them. And so, when the earsore abandoned him to give his bladder a rest (who the fuck spoke like that except for fucking dickheads?), It didn't take Langdon long to pick a new best friend and approach them with his usual shit eating affable smile.

"Long time no see," reaching all the way to his eyes, the grin made him look like a starved alligator although the person facing him was perhaps not the sort to be so easily intimidated. That would be his luck, really. He preferred those who bit back. So few did.

[nightfoxbeck]

He genuinely doesn't remember why he agreed to come to this thing. He hates fancy fundraisers about as much as he hates the rich people who go to them. But being that it's a Narcissus thing (or at least, a Narcissus-Adjacent thing), and Narcissus is kind of the one who makes all of Night Fox's theft actually, well, usuable and worthwhile, Beck supposes showing their face is the decent thing to do.

Plus, you know... charity. And sure, Beck is all for charity and good causes. There's just something vaguely nauseating about the 1% of the population getting dressed up in ostentatious formal wear, to bid obnoxious amounts of money on stuff they don't really need, all so they can have an audience to witness how generous and benevolent they are. Heaven forbid they just quietly send a cheque to the organizations they care about.

But of course, here Beck is, dressed to the nines in their own formal wear (though, it's the least ostentatious fit they could find—simple and classy with just a flair of personality), sipping an expensive cocktail made with top-shelf tequila, and watching people mill about making small talk, fake-laughing at jokes that Beck would have put good money on not being funny at all.

And they've actually spent the last five minutes watching Narcissus do just that, with a pair of bores Beck can only assume are coworkers, and by the time they excuse themselves and peel away Narcissus has a wild, frenetic look in his eye, like he's just nabbed an egg out from under a dragon and wants to get the fuck out of a dodge before it wakes up.

Nikolaj returns the smile, though it's not half as energetic as Narcissus', and raises their glass in the gesture of a cheers. "Indeed. I was wondering how long they'd manage to keep hanging off your ear. Tiring of your social obligations yet?" They smirk.

[nightfoxbeck]

Location: Camden Market Time: Mid-day Status: Open

Pick-pocketing reminds Beck of their father. Of long, humid days in crowded streets—in so many different cities it was hard to keep track where they were on any given day. But growing up, no matter where Preston and Nikolaj were, a few things were always the same: they were always together, and there was always pick-pocketing.

Of course, that was where it'd all started, for Beck—quick fingers ghosting into back pockets, coaxing wallets from bags, slipping watches off wrists, all in the space of a breath, a nudge disguised with smiling apologies. He'd been just shy of six when his father had first started teaching him. Just little tricks here and there, to start, simple tasks, nothing too risky or complicated. But Beck had been a swift learner, nimble-fingered and light on their feet. Once they'd mastered the sleight of hand, the whole world had opened up.

They don't need anything now. Not like they used to. They're taken care of, more or less safe. So they can't justify this kind of petty theft in the same way: telling themselves it was out of basic need. A matter of life or death, at times. It isn't about that anymore, but they can't seem to curb the habit, and they aren't sure they want to. It feels like keeping the spirit of his father alive, and Beck has never really stopped resenting the rich, even as his financial situations have changed. How could he? The rich ruined lives. Every day, they ruin more. If anything, he's just doing his civic duty. A bit of rightful rebalancing.

They briefly admire the gold bracelet they've just appropriated (commandeered, they often like to call it), before dropping it into the inside pocket of their jacket. A woman with a silk scarf wrapped around the strap of her shoulder bag bustles by, knocking Beck in the shoulder—no kidding, he loves it when it happens that way, like fate has stepped in with a silver platter, no orchestration required—and as he dismisses her hasty apologies with a charming smile, he pinches his fingers into the creamy fabric. By the time she turns around and hurries away, she's already left the scarf in Beck's hand. Like candy from a baby, really.

Smirking to themselves, they loop it around their neck once and head off in the other direction.

[nightfoxbeck]