There’s a chance you might be in the wrong business.
when he cracks an eye and looks up at the blurry form of some intern he'd spoken to a handful of times, it's the first thing he hears: there's a chance you might be in the wrong business.
wait.
is he in a fucking box? like one of those glass cages you use to preserve books or papers or mummies, whatever the fuck the louvre operates these days, and phil is standing in one. a peach pit sized lump swollen to the touch and sensitive when he swipes a palm over the back of his head throbs; it's too-bright in the little square of room against the dark of the room he assumes is a basement.
(this little fucker has taken his tie and his shoes -- and has his babe ruth signed baseball bat propped up against the wall.)
" -- what the fuck are you doing, tyler? "
