“Take a seat, Torres,” Ruthless says, nodding to the remaining chair at the kitchen table.
Shaq’s in the middle of doing just that, gun still in their hand, when the phone on the table in the hall rings - once, twice, then a third time and a fourth. Quill jumps, visibly. Edric doesn’t, but his hand tightens around his gun, even if he’s lowered it to the table. He watches Ruthless’s eyes scan the room almost lazily, and can almost hear the clicking of a roulette wheel winding down as their gaze falls on Shaq, then Quill, then finally lands on him.
“Are you gonna answer that?” they ask.
“Are you gonna get your feet off my goddamn table?” Edric counters.
Ruthless shrugs broadly, but tips their chair forward, boots hitting hardwood with a heavy thud. They’re still staring at him with an idle curiosity that means he’s either meant to answer the phone or he isn’t, and one of those options might mean a bullet in Quill’s head, but it’s impossible to tell which. The phone rings again. Edric grits his teeth, stands, and ignores the steady, insistent throbbing in his shoulder as he drags himself into the hallway.
“Not the best time,” he says, when he picks up the phone. Only a few people have the number for the landline, and Quill’s the only one out of any of them that he’d bother being polite to. Especially right now.
“I get that a lot,” Jaylen says, easily, and if Edric weren’t already so on high alert, his blood might run cold. “When’s better for you, Tosser? I can tell my secretary to pencil this in for tomorrow.”
“Fuck off,” Edric snaps. He’s acutely aware that Ruthless’s eyes haven’t left him - and that, presumably, their sniper’s eyes haven’t left Quill. So he says, softer, “I’m already dealing with something. Leave me alone.”
Jaylen hums. “What kind of something?”
“You tell me,” Edric says, terse. If she’s bothering to actually call, that must mean she has eyes on the apartment - or something similar - and is looking to gloat about it. The only other leverage she’d possibly have to gloat about is sitting around the kitchen table, where Edric can see them.
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. Edric listens to Jaylen tapping out text messages on what he assumes is a burner phone, and watches Ruthless smugly bite into another brownie, which sets something in his blood boiling. He grips the phone harder. From here, looking at the whole scene, it’s impossible to ignore the way Shaq winces when he shifts in his chair, or the slight quiver of Quill’s lip in their smile.
“Damn,” Jaylen says eventually. “Your old boss fucking scooped me, Tosser.”
“I am wildly aware,” Edric says, his voice a perfect deadpan.
“I know about the other Torres, by the way. I’d love the full story on that, I’m sure it’s fascinating.”
“Yeah, I bet you would.” Edric exhales, the smell of smoke still lodged in his nose, and recalls the hired goons he keeps catching on his tail, who he keeps ducking and letting live for some godforsaken reason. Maybe it's because Quill is here, now, and he's wary of how much violence he brings home to them. Or maybe he’s getting soft. Either way, it won’t happen again. “That’s not their name anymore, by the way.”
“Whatever. Do you want my help or not?”
“What?” Edric asks. His eyes catch Ruthless’s again, and he can tell they’re getting impatient, free hand gesturing in the universal sign for wrap it up, asshole.
“I mean, I’ve got people watching your place, obviously. And I don’t love being scooped on a plan. If anybody kills you or Torres or the other one, it’d better be me.”
“You’re deranged.”
“That’s not a ‘no’,” Jaylen says, smug.
Edric clenches his jaw, then relaxes it. “It’s not.”
“Great,” she says. He can hear the smile in her voice from all the way in Breckenridge. “You’ll owe me one.”
The line’s dead before he can reply. Edric sets the phone down into the cradle with a hand that’s much less steady than it was a minute ago, and blinks rapidly, like this is some dream he can clear away from his eyes if he tries hard enough. It doesn’t work. Quill and Shaq and Ruthless are still in the kitchen when he looks back there, and so he sighs, and heads back to his chair.
“Who was it?” Ruthless asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Nosy neighbors,” Edric says, and reaches across the table to grab a brownie, a corner piece. “You know how it is.”
Quill is mixing brownie batter in front of the kitchen window when they hear the doorknob rattle, and it’s another ten seconds plus the sound of the door swinging open with no greeting before they realize it’s not Shaq and Edric coming home.
To their credit, they don’t scream when they turn around and see the stranger standing in the hall. They don’t cry, though their throat tightens, and they don’t reach for the knife block, mostly because they’re still holding a wooden spoon in one hand. Mostly Quill stares at the stranger, who stares back at them, and scowls.
“Torres.”
“Um,” Quill says, and sets the spoon down slowly in the bowl of batter. “Shaq - hm. I know how this sounds, but he’s not actually here right now?”
Even before it’s out of their mouth, they know it’s not the answer the stranger wants, or expects. The gaze leveled at them, eyes narrowed, confirms it. And in some sense, that’s fine, because Quill likes a stranger who’s easy to read. Not that they can do much to ease this particular disappointment - they’ve already sort of given up the ghost on not being Shaq. With a little warning, they might have done better.
The stranger’s lip curls. “For your sake, I hope this is a bit.”
“It’s not!” Quill says, and smiles out of reflex. The only exit here is blocked, and they’re relatively sure the stranger has a gun, because most strangers Edric and Shaq know tend to have those. So they stand their ground. What else is there? “Shaq and Edric are out, and I don’t know where they are, so if you’re looking for them you might as well sit down and wait. Or come back tomorrow! But the one thing you aren’t going to do is stand there trying to decide if I’m Shaq Torres, because I’m not, and you might as well shoot me and get it over with right now if you don’t believe me.”
The dead silence that falls over the kitchen is broken only by the oven chiming to announce that it’s done preheating, and Quill isn’t ashamed to admit that the shrill noise makes them jump out of their skin. They nearly knock the bowl of batter to the floor, and swear under their breath, clutching the edge of the counter for balance. So much for playing it cool. But when they turn their attention back to the stranger, ze’s smiling at them - almost curiously, like they’re an oddity under glass.
“You really aren’t him,” the stranger says.
“I’m really not.” Quill says.
“Twins?”
“Something like that.” Quill twists the bauble of one earing gently between two fingers, fidgeting. “Are you going to shoot me or not?”
“I think I’ll take you up on the offer to wait,” the stranger says. And they step into the kitchen, and then they’re sitting, boots propped right against the edge of the table.
“Okay,” Quill says. “I’m Quill.”
“Ruthless,” the stranger says, and - sure. Quill can see that.
There’s a crack in the corner of Camio’s bedroom mirror. Or reaches out to thumb at it gently, tracing the fracture down the glass with the pad of their finger.
“What happened to your mirror?”
“Stay still,” Camio says, under his breath. He’s sitting behind them at the vanity, dragging a comb through their long hair in firm, even-handed strokes. The way he used to, before he was a lord of his own estate. The way he still insists on doing.
Or pulls their fingers away from the glass and folds their hands in their lap. They still trace the crack with their eyes, though, only occasionally distracted by the sight of Camio moving at their back like their shadow.
“It’s cracked,” they tell him, pointedly.
“I don’t mind,” Camio says. Or isn’t sure what they were expecting. If Camio minded anything in his estate, it might not be so sparsely decorated.
“Well, I do,” they say. “I’ll find you a new one.”
“This one is fine.”
The comb passes through a particularly tangled knot, and Or winces as they feel the tug in their scalp. Camio puts his hand on their wrist briefly, as though to apologize, but removes it before they can touch him back.
“No, it isn’t,” Or says, trying to meet his good eye in the reflection. “It’s broken.”
Sorry this is late! Tumblr never gave me a notification!
Champagne: What Topic Could you Talk About for Hours?
Harry Potter. Feminism. All for the Game. History. Theatre. High School.
Lace: What is Something in your Life Completely Different from Last Year?
I have my license now. I’m about to graduate from college so that’s super different. Also my theses.
Lipstick: Do you Enjoy Talking to Strangers?
Sometimes. If I initiate it and I’m in a place where I can tell a bit about the person, for sure. Like at a theatre conference, or a convention, or like when I’m surrounded by people with the same interests, I definitely love talking to new people. Othertimes, nah.
