Summary: Kip gets more than she bargained for when she steals a man’s wallet.
Characters: Kip, Jagger.
Prompt: ❝ You can’t fool me. ❞
Warnings: Threat, mild violence, references to drugs and volatile mood swings.
A/N: I started a new drabble challenge in the hopes that it’ll get me out of a writer’s block! There’re no set characters nor prompts, but I think a lot of them will focus on Kip and Simon and the people in their lives, as well as their eventual crossover.
Kip winces as her face is pushed into the wall, its uneven surface digging into the soft skin of her cheek. “Hey, stop! That HURTS, you jerk!”
The stranger lets out a cold, humourless laugh, one that digs into her almost as much as the scratchy concrete does. Most houses in Leylan are sanded clean and even, though the alleyways are sometimes neglected. Why dedicate outstanding effort to places fit only to house their garbage cans? They’re a fussy breed, but they draw the line at futile endeavours.
His gloved hand is hot and heavy against the back of her head, fingers curling into her thick lavender hair and tugging her harshly upright. Her heart pounds like a drum as her back melds tight against his front. Fear tastes like the inner wall of a chimney, thick and ashen on her tongue as she clutches the neck of her keytar case for all it’s worth. She tries to tell herself that she doesn’t claim it, that it can’t take over and make her weak, but she’s terrified of this man.
“Let’s try this again.” His voice is smooth, singed deep with a mocking calm. “My produce. Where is it?”
“I told you I DON’T KNOW!” She struggles then– attempts to tug her keytar loose and swing it at him, but she isn’t quick enough. His large hand catches her wrist and bends her arm behind her head at an angle that borders on unnatural. Kip is a lot of things: a smart-mouthed pick-pocket, a darling sister, a talented musician - but she isn’t a masochist. Her pain tolerance has always been horrid, and the idea of having her bone snapped in a shady back alley has a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead, breath coming out in short, shallow puffs. “L-Let go, let me go–”
“See, I want to! I do. But that guy you looted–” He pauses to dig his thumb into her wrist, hard, as if he’s attempting to nestle it between the tendons without opening her up first. “He works for me. I’ve got to protect my own. And my business.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kip blubbers, knees wobbling. The last thing she wants to do right now is cry, but her resolve is crumbling fast. She can deal with rude people all day long, but big men that are morally bankrupt enough to get physical with her? It quickly becomes apparent how little she is in comparison.
“Mm… nah. I don't believe you. You can’t fool me.”
A strangled cry leaves her as he slowly applies pressure to her already-aching arm, fat tears stinging the corners of her eyes before rolling down her cheeks. “I–I don’t! I swear, I j–just took his wallet! I didn’t want anything else– I d-don’t know who you are!”
The man hesitates for a moment. The streets may have dulled his empathy somewhat, but they haven’t turned him into stone. He knows crying when he hears it. If this woman is lying, she’s quite the talented actress - and he gathers, from the instrument slung across her middle, that her skills lie in other areas. Slowly, he releases her, shoving her away from him with a callous thrust of his forearm. As soon as she makes impact with the wall behind her, she all but crumbles against it, legs shaking so hard that it’s a wonder she remains standing at all.
“Speak,” he demands tersely, shoulders squared in case she attempts to swing at him again. If she does, he’ll make sure it’s the last move she ever makes. “Who the fuck are you? Hm? Why’d you rob him if not for the spice?”
Kip stares up at him as if she’s seen a ghost. “S-Spice?”
Things are starting to click into place, albeit gradually. The shady back alley, the man’s cold exterior, this obsession with brotherhood and money and belonging… she’d unwittingly gotten her hands on more than she bargained for when she stole that man’s wallet. Not that she’d even known, for she’d emptied it of bills and coins before tossing it into a gutter. She sniffles pathetically, her arm (the one that hadn’t been bent behind her head like a makeshift boomerang) swiping across her face in an effort to rid it of tears. Her skin feels clammy to the touch. “No, I… I don’t do things like that. I–I just needed money.”
“You make money by selling those tabs, idiot.” He’s growing increasingly impatient with this girl, and the more she talks, the more he fears what he’ll have to do to keep her silent. He doesn’t take any pleasure in hurting people. Pride, perhaps, but not pleasure.
“Look, I didn’t know. I didn’t!” She grits her teeth, sharp canines bared in the form of a fierce snarl in spite of her red-rimmed eyes. She’s through with grovelling - and she’s through with this man’s accusations, too. He may be a street-rat, may have subscribed to a life of crime and debauchery, but her only sin is stealing cash to feed herself and her brother. “Look at me! I’m a low-life wannabe musician. I’m playing gigs in shitty bars with ten people in them at max. I have no money! I have no university degree! I have NOTHING! I have my brother and that’s it. You think I know ANYTHING about drugs or gangs or what part of town you run? I just want to pay rent.” She clamps her teeth over the tip of her tongue until the urge to cry again passes. “I know it’s wrong to steal. Just like you probably know it's wrong to sell these things. But I need to live. What else can I do?!”
There are several answers to that question, but he dares not say any of them. He's in a position where most of them can be thrown back in his face. Just get a regular old job. Stop putting others at risk. Just pick a different target.
He pinches the space between his eyes with a grunt of irritation. “At least give the guy his damn wallet back. Where is it?”
“I threw it away somewhere…”
He stares at her as if she’s spoken a foreign language, brow knitting with confusion before it becomes a hateful crease. “You stole it just to toss it?”
“I didn’t wanna be caught with ID that wasn’t mine, s-so I emptied it of cash and then threw it away.”
“There were eight tabs in there, you idiot! You’re telling me you didn’t see them while emptying his fucking wallet?!” He leans in close, and she instinctively backs away, pressing herself tight against the wall. Her teal eyes are blown wide with fear, her fingers closed tight around the neck of her instrument. “Do you have any idea how much money down the drain that is?! Shit’s EXPENSIVE!”
“I–I’m sorry–”
“Oh, you’re sorry!” He throws his arms upwards, and the need for subtlety leaves him completely. “Pack it up, fellas! The girl’s sorry!” Predictably, nobody comes running. Leylan may be a communal place, but people know better than to interrupt the goings-on in dingy sside-streets. There’s a reason that people like him operate in the shadows of dumpsters. He thrusts a finger so close to her face that Kip worries it’s going to go straight into her eye. “You owe me a lot of money, lady.”
“B–But I don’t have any…” It’s all but a whisper, watery and frail. She has very little to her name. An apartment she shares with Basil; an old treehouse that has no monetary value; the most she could do is attempt to pawn off some of the retro consoles sitting in that place, though it would break her heart to do so.
“Then you’d best make some,” the man hisses, pointing at her keytar. “I’m sure you can–”
“No!” Kip draws the instrument protectively behind her, shielding it from view. Her face is the equivalent of a pond’s rippling surface, cycling through emotions so quickly that it’s all but imperceptible. She wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to drop to her knees and beg– and yet she wants to do none of them, disgusted by the thought of giving into this man and his less-than-glowing personality. She’s grown to oppose those that are mean, and he has to be the most unpleasant person she’s crossed paths with in a long time.
… but this is her mess. Whether it was intentional or not, the result is irrefutable. Feeling guilty for being the cause of a drug dealer’s misery is arguably misplaced, but Kip hates to be at the centre of another’s inconvenience. Besides, she may not be interested in what he’s selling, but it isn’t as if stealing is much better. Two wrongs evidently don’t make a right.
Kip sucks in a steady breath, trying her best to look distinctly more adult than she feels. “I can work for you.”
Her eyes are trained on his face in spite of the mounting urge to run. She watches it change like the seasons, the kink in his brow gradually smoothing out, mouth twitching upwards with mirth. His unpredictable emotions threaten her almost as much as his physical build does.
“That’s less bad to you than selling your instrument?” His tone performs a dance, light and airy in spite of the grim arrangement forming between them. If nothing else, this girl is interesting. He’s seldom met somebody who has no interest in drugs that’ll then throw themselves into his path, not even out of necessity.
Hollowly, Kip nods. “This thing’s all I have that’s mine. It’s front and centre in everything that I do. If I lose it, I won’t be able to do gigs or…” Against her better judgement, she feels her face heat up with slight embarrassment. “Or post videos online…”
“Ugh, you’re one of those people… figures.”
She very nearly stamps her foot and yells at him to shut up, but her sense of self-preservation is thankfully just a little too sharp to do so. Instead, she swallows hard, like forcing down a bitter spoonful of medicine, before straightening her spine even further. She won’t be intimidated by him.
“I can do it. If I owe you money, I can work for you until I pay off my debt.” She lets a confident smile stretch across her face, despite the fact that she couldn’t possibly be further out of her depth. “How much do I owe you?”
“Around 40,000 paals.”
“What?!” And there goes the confident smile, replaced with an expression so stunned that it almost evokes pity from the man. “For eight tabs? What the hell is that extortion?!”
“Hey, I deal, I know how much it is. You clearly don’t understand what it takes to make this shit so pipe down, tiny.” His voice is back to that low, dangerous whir, and Kip backs off much like she would from a hungry lion. “You’re noisy, you know. It’s really off-putting.” A smirk crosses his face then. “But you’re fast, too. And street-smart. They’re two traits you need to do well out here. I think you could do it.”
He won’t admit it to her face, but he feels bad for her. She’s a prime example of someone who’s suffering the brunt of karma early, and probably disproportionately. She looks young and arguably as desperate as she makes out, clad in nothing but a muddied red jacket that is miles too big for her, cheap leggings and boots that look about ready to fall apart. It contrasts his suave black coat and his tailored waistcoat so plainly that it’s ugly. He wonders briefly if her brother has anything to do with this apparent poverty. Why is it only her getting her hands dirty for the sake of obtaining cash? If they live together, they’re stuck in the same space, in the same circumstances. What is he doing to help?
“... fine,” he says eventually, nodding. “I’ll take you on. But you won’t see a single coin of what you earn, understand? It's mine.”
Kip gulps and begrudgingly nods her head, only partially relieved when he claps and smiles. It’s wide this time, arguably real, but the veil of pleasantry is so thin that it’s all but translucent. She can see the shark beyond it, all black-eyed and jagged-toothed.
“Great! Then meet me here tomorrow. 7AM sharp. Don’t be late. If you are…”
“I won’t be!” Kip interrupts, waving her hands in a desperate attempt to appease him. She’s normally not one to take threats seriously, but he’s already proven that he can and will hurt her if she does something that he doesn’t like. She makes an attempt to smile, but it’s more of a grimace. “I’ll be here. B-Bright and early…”
He knocks her chin gently with a gloved hand, as if greeting a pet dog, before turning his back on her. To him, there’s no reason to worry about letting her go; he’s made his intentions clear. She’ll be seeing more of him regardless of the choice she makes. “I hope so. A young lady disappearing isn’t something I want to be hearing about on the radio, you know. What a buzzkill when you’re just trying to have your morning coffee, right?”
Kip deflates, the pin-prick tip of his threat popping what’s left of her resolve like a balloon.
Summary: Kip sees Jagger less than a little composed.
Characters: Kip, Jagger.
Prompt: ❝ I kind of liked the secrecy. ❞
Warnings: Alcoholism (implied), drunk-driving, general recklessness and stupidity.
Jagger remembers his first drink like most people do their first kiss. It was in his father’s office at the tender age of seven. He’d been screwing around, like most children do, and found the bottle tucked in his bottom drawer. The cap had instantly drawn him in; a silver dragon etched into its surface as if it was a badge of honour as opposed to a corporate logo. The moment the whiskey had touched his tongue, he’d gagged and spat and determined then and there that he’d never touch the stuff again.
“What do you fancy, Jag?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
The bartender is the kind of man to make nice with everyone. Jagger isn’t. The moment he receives his drink, he gives him a single nod to indicate gratitude before looking away. Even without words, the message is clear: leave me be.
Jagger seldom gets time to relax. Drink and drugs have become infused into his typical routine, yet his time spent in socially acceptable drinking spots is all but zero. Unlike a lot of people in this place, he doesn’t drink to enhance his sociability. He does it like one might do a chore: for a greater, loveless purpose. The hum of chatter feels like home though, like the incessant buzz of the lamps that keep his produce growing as it should.
It doesn’t take long for him to polish off his drink and buy another. Alcohol doesn’t burn like it used to. Instead, it nestles in his chest like a sleepy animal and rests, and the warmth it radiates is comforting rather than overwhelming. His heart is a window ledge; his afflictions a lazy cat.
Eventually, he grows tired of ordering and pays for a bottle to be left beside him. A familiar buzz fills his head, followed by a snowy static that consumes his limbs, and for a while, everything is calm. He tunes in to the quiet song playing in the background, some sunny electro-swing duet performed by a couple that love music as much as they do each other, and feels content.
He doesn’t pin the exact moment that the scene changes. It starts as a thumping rhythm that wasn’t there before, one that his boot subconsciously taps along to, followed by a synth that sends a shiver down the length of his spine. Jagger’s music taste is a subversion from most men his age. He may like classic rock, may hold affection for iconic riffs from his time as a teenager, but his soul lives in a bassline’s pulse. His van’s radio is evidence of that, a playlist full of synth-pop and smooth liquid drums at his disposal whenever he has errands to run. Unlike a lot of things, Jagger likes this kind of music for the way it makes him feel. It’s music that should be played while speeding down highways at way over the speed limit, the city tinged violet with hedonism. Not a sight he’s experienced first-hand, given Leylan’s strict curfew, but the image burns so brightly in his mind's eye that he swears he’s been there before.
Jagger takes another drink, eyes falling closed as he soaks in the atmosphere. The dim orange lights have faded to an atmospheric blue, swathing the bar in a nebulous darkness that makes him feel tired in the best way possible. He’s floating, so very high above everything that’s ever had the capacity to weigh him down–
– and then her voice reaches his ears.
His eyes snap open with recognition, though he remains with his back to the stage. To her.
It can’t be Kip, he thinks stubbornly. Blaming his warped perception on the drink seems permissible - and then the song reaches its chorus and her voice is irrefutable. It’s… beautiful. Far more mature than he’s come to expect. When he saw that stupid keytar hung over her shoulder, he’d assumed she was of mediocre talent. How else is he supposed to react to the starry-eyed, “I’m a musician!” if not with scepticism? Everybody that’s ever said that has really meant that they have no prospects and are desperately chasing a pipe dream.
He gets the overwhelming sense that he should leave, yet he feels glued to his seat. Her melody settles in his brain before trickling down, down, down, until he swears he can feel it convulsing in his soul. Those gentle vocals mixed with the 80’s style synth make for a deliciously haunting tune, and the sudden surge of POWER in her voice throughout the final chorus all but knocks him off of his bar stool. By the time she’s finished, he feels alarmingly as if he is too. He glances at the stage over his shoulder; sees her sitting in front of a big, bulky keyboard that has most certainly been borrowed from somebody. There’s no way she could afford such a swanky bit of kit-- not when she’s supposedly stealing wallets to buy food.
The sound of people cheering breaks his spell. It’s a gradual noise, as if the crowd isn’t quite sure of what they’ve just witnessed, before the unpleasant crescendo swallows him whole. It isn’t that big a group, and most of her audience is shit-faced, staggering even though they’re standing still, but applause is applause when you’re hungry for stardom.
She rises from her chair with a bright smile, hands clasped in front of her as she bows humbly. “Thank you!”
Jagger’s never heard her sound this happy. It’s as if he’s seeing a different person, the real her, and it feels far more personal than it should. As the lights brighten and the crowd moves on, Jagger rises from his seat and determines that he should vanish. However, the drink makes him clumsier than normal, gait wobbly and slow as he attempts to weave between tables without falling over. Usually pinprick senses are abuzz with static; it leaves him oblivious to the fact that she’s noticed him on his way out, bridging the distance between them.
“Jagger?”
He pauses as if he’s been caught doing the walk of shame, dark knuckles turning white as he clutches the neck of his bottle. He’s never spoken to her outside of work before, never so much as shot her a text that isn’t to do with business. The gap between them is purposeful, and it’s more for her sake than his.
“Kip,” he says, voice low. “What’d I tell you? Outside of work? We. Don’t. Know each other.”
“Whatever. I know you,” she replies dismissively, following him as he exits the bar. He’s drunk as a skunk, that much she can gather just by smelling him, nevermind from watching him walk. His usually sharp sense of direction falters as he clears the threshold of the pub’s front door. “You’re wasted right now!
“Well, yeah, ‘s how I like to be." He stops outside of his van, fumbling with the door handle, and Kip gasps softly in surprise before reaching out to grab his arm
"You can't drive this drunk!" she hisses, swatting at the skin of his forearm gently.
"No, don't worry, I-- I do it all the time."
"All the time?!" She's torn between gawking and scowling, lips parting and meeting as she fumbles desperately for words. She feels useless, for she can't even offer him a ride home. Learning to drive is low on her list of priorities, given that she can get everywhere she wants to go via roller-skates and monorail rides. Maybe one day. "That's so dangerous. You're gonna get yourself killed!"
"Yeah, you're ruining my buzz, doll. Remind me to never go drinkin' with you."
"Okay. First– " She swallows hard, uttering a short, harsh laugh. "Do not call me doll. Second, I'm just looking out for you! Do you know what that is, huh? Empathy?"
"Doesn't ring a bell," he murmurs as he drags the driver's side door open and climbs in. She sticks her arm in the way when he tries to close it behind him, and he feels frustration building in his gut. "Kip--"
"You should've said hi."
"I kinda liked the secrecy,” he drawls sardonically.
"The secrecy of what?" she asks, catching his eye feebly. The sun is beginning to set. Her outline is warm and fuzzy, and Jagger feels a drunken urge to invite her back home. He swallows it down like he does alcohol, relieved when it tastes bitter upon its descent. "... did you like my song?"
“You…” He’s cellophane in that moment; he knows it, and she knows it too, and he doesn't have the mental fortitude when he’s this drunk to lie convincingly. Still, he doesn’t want to tell her as such– doesn’t want to admit that his veins are still thrumming with that intoxicating rhythm, that her stunning vocals have made a nest in his brain. Instead of saying anything, he feeds his key into the ignition and turns it, the engine revving to life. “I’m goin’ home. You should get goin’ too, it’s getting late.”
The look in her eyes is desperate, but she knows in her heart that she can’t stop him. She may not be overly fond of him, but she doesn't want him to wind up dead because he totaled his van on the way home. It isn’t a trustworthy statement, but she can only hope that he’s being sincere with his sentiment, that he really has done this ‘all the time’.
It won’t stop her worrying, though.
Her hands curl around the lip of his window. “Look. Text me when you get home, okay?”
“Why?”
“Just– so I know you didn't crash and DIE, Jag!”
A bitter laugh escapes him as he drums his hands against the steering wheel. “Please. All your problems vanish if I vanish,” he says, staring into her eyes unflinchingly as he leans a little closer. The smell of whiskey permeates the space between them. To her credit, Kip doesn’t flinch either. “You should be sending me off with another shot glass in hand, little lady.”
Her brow furrows, and she looks simultaneously exposed and affronted. With a growing storm in her eyes, she scowls and leans forward until there’s barely any space between them. Fiery. Defiant. “Don’t. Say that.” It’s as if she frightens herself, a hint of innocence gleaming through the intensity as she backs away from him again. By the time she’s back to her spot on the pavement, she looks slightly dazed — as if she’s woken from a particularly vivid daydream — and her gaze is back to being round and doe-like. “... I don’t want you to die, okay? Just, drive... as safe as you can. And tell me when you get home. I have to pack up.”
He watches her with a muted sense of confusion as she slowly backs away from him, until she’s standing in the bar’s doorway again. He just can’t understand her; he doesn’t get how she can have so much love stuffed inside of her. She’s like a living, breathing teddy bear, and it pisses him off.
Don’t act like you give a shit about me. Don’t.
Nervously, she raises her hand and gives him a meek little wave, leaning her head against the doorframe like a sad puppy.
With grit teeth and swimming vision, Jagger puts his foot on the gas pedal and floors it down the road.
Summary: In the end, he did let her know he was okay.
Characters: Kip, Jagger.
Prompt: ❝ Were you serious? ❞
Warnings: N/A
A/N: Sorry for the break between uploads. I was dealing with a uhhhhh ~Mental Breakdown~ lol. I’m slowly getting myself back together, but please just be patient for a couple of weeks while I get back into the groove again!
Success has a glorious way of putting her to sleep. Though her slot in the bar had been brief– a measly fifteen minutes on stage, it had taken longer to set up than it had to perform– it had left its mark. The applause echoes in her mind as she gradually enters the world of the living once more, vision blurred and fluffy until her bland white ceiling comes into focus.
One day, these gigs will pay off. She tells herself this day in and day out, if only because it keeps her hopeful. The life of an artist is a painful one, one destined for ignorance and underappreciation, but she loves music too much to give it up. As long as she's still alive to do so, she'll continue to make it in spite of the fact that it seems rather fruitless; it's all she can do, and all she has to offer the world in turn.
If not this, what?
Still hazy with sleep, Kip retrieves her phone from beneath her pillow and clicks the power button.
[ 2 MESSAGES → JAG. ]
[ 1 VOICEMAIL → JAG. ]
The memory of the previous night hits her like a truck, heart beginning to race as she recalls his clumsy stagger and his hazy eyes, the image of him driving turning into a wreckage that she can’t fully visualise-- because she isn’t brave enough to. Even now, she can’t quite believe she’s seen him in any other state than perfect. It feels similarly to seeing a teacher outside of school. Eerie, if only because the concept of them having a life outside of their job has never hit you in the way that it does in that moment. They’re a complex person, with their own thoughts and feelings, and you never stopped to realise it because you were too busy stressing about trigonometry. In that same vein, she’s never viewed Jagger as somebody that exists outside of his debaucherous career. He's always well-dressed, well-groomed and ruthlessly articulate. Sharp, like a knife, and with the temperament to match. What she'd seen last night had been nothing short of sloppy-- a glimpse behind the curtain that she’d never asked to see beyond.
Hurriedly, she beats her thumb against the notification, cursing the lag of her old model as they load at a snail’s pace.
[ TEXT → JAG. ] I made it hpme.
[ TEXT → JAG. ] Don't piss your pwnts. Assignment tomorrowq.
Kip stares at the messages with a look of begrudging awe. Even in the throes of inebriation, he retains his snippy tone, and she can’t quite figure out whether to be impressed, annoyed or relieved. Most likely some cryptic amalgamation of the three.
He got assignment right but not pants?
With a quiet snort of laughter, she throws her legs over the side of her bed and drags herself from beneath her covers. If he’s indeed going to follow through on the whole assignment shtick, she at least wants a slice of toast in her. Trying to do Jagger’s bidding is made even more insufferable by hunger.
A generous helping of butter is drawn across her toast before she hops up onto the counter and nibbles at one corner as she scrolls through her social media feed. Fourteen new likes. One new comment. It doesn’t take long for her mind to drift from the pictures of cute animals and crass jokes flooding her timeline, brain steadily filling with visions of what Jagger’s going to want from her this time. One day, she fears she’s going to fall too far down the rabbit hole; find herself neck-deep in dirty darkness that she no longer wants to escape from. Holding a wrapped shipment of spice had almost been too much for her to handle. How the hell is she going to manage anything more incriminating? Even if Jagger can keep her clean in the eyes of the police, she’s still been exposed to things she can never forget. Doors she can never fully close. People she can never fully wipe from her memory. Some things run deeper than the law. In fact, they tunnel beneath it and emerge on the other, darker side, nails dull and muddy, teeth sharp and spiteful. Kip knows that. She’s been one of them - and at the rate she’s going, she will be again.
Her mind drifts uneasily to the voicemail. She’s never been nervous to open one before– not even when she and her brother have had fights– yet she can’t help but worry. She may be playing a glorified maid at the moment, but when things get real and Jagger requires an extra set of hands, she can only imagine the horrible things he’ll make her do.
With evident apprehension, she forces what’s left of her breakfast down before belligerently clicking on the notification.
YOU HAVE… ONE, NEW MESSAGE!
“Kip, listen… that song you played at the bar, was that yours? I’ve never heard anythin’ like it before. I searched some of the lyrics but nothin’ turned up,” Jagger slurs, his voice low and thick before the sound of shuffling consumes the line. At first, it’s nondescript and quiet, but she quickly identifies it as bed sheets rustling. It relieves her to know that he hadn’t been drinking when he sent this; he’d already been drunk behind the wheel, the last thing he needed to be doing was trying to talk on the phone too. “Can’t stop playin’ it over and over in my head. Think I took that bassline home with me. I’m thinkin’ of you; you-- singing, I mean.”
Clumsy.
Her brow furrows as she listens to him toss and turn, mumbling incoherently as he does. His message brings with it an indescribable warmth. It settles in her cheeks, the same way it does when she receives praise from someone she hopes to impress, and it stays there in a way she’s not felt before. Jagger is a hard man to please. She’s barely seen him crack a smile since their unfortunate meeting, nevermind lavish somebody with genuine wonderment. A pleased little smirk forms on her face; smug, upturned like she really is some sort of posh snoot.
Jagger clears his throat on the recording, and it makes her straighten up. As if he’s right next to her to smother her ego.
“Bring me a copy of that song on a disc. I want to play it in my van.”
Abruptly, the message ends, and she listens to the automated voice ask her what she wants to do with the voicemail as she struggles to close her mouth. From beginning to end, his words were a mess… but they were undoubtedly honest, and that’s what matters to her. People like to blame their loosened filters on being drunk, but Kip knows better. She knows that intoxication makes people brave, not liars, and not even someone as supposedly flawless as Jagger is exempt from this shameful truth. The things he’d said… she knows he’d never say them without some sort of failsafe. It’s not like I knew I was complimenting you, dipshit. I was shit-faced. She hears it so clearly in her head that she scoffs outwardly, her smile large and audacious.
Now her only question is whether she really should burn him a CD containing her song or not. Sober, she doubts Jagger will appreciate her smarmy attitude. He may very well snap it in two right in front of her, and that will hurt her more than she cares to admit.
After considering her options, she types out an impish set of texts and hits send before she can think better of it.
[ TXT → KIP. ] Still thinking of me, bossman? =P
[ TXT → KIP. ] Were you serious about the disc by the way? I can totally burn you one.
Oh, he’s going to give her hell for that one, whether it was well-played or not. She can feel that much in her soul. In spite of this, just picturing his stupid face as he reads her texts is enough to make her climb into the shower with a smile.
Summary: Kip learns what is meant by “a rotten assignment”.
Characters: Kip, Jagger, Basil.
Prompt: ❝ Well, that’s on you. ❞
Warnings: Drugs ( fictional ).
A/N: A direct continuation of the previous chapter because uhhhh I said so.
“Wakey wakey.”
Kip stirs when Jagger nudges her shoulder with a gloved hand. He’s fully dressed, excluding his coat, and is clearly already prepared for the day ahead. Hung over his arm are her freshly washed clothes, offered to her with an unexpectedly cordial patience.
"Okay," she mumbles, not knowing whether to thank him or not. She may have just woken up, but she recalls how that had panned out yesterday. Her poor forehead. "Um–"
"You've got twenty minutes to make yourself…" He pauses, looking her over, his mouth curling into a spiteful sneer. With evident disdain: "... vaguely presentable."
Kip squints before kicking her blanket aside and standing up. She snatches her clothes from him with a sour scowl before trawling off to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. If there’s one thing she can’t understand above all else, it’s why some people make the conscious choice to be unpleasant. Jagger must have one hell of a reputation to protect. After how they’d met, that wouldn’t surprise her in the slightest.
The second that the cold water hits her face, Kip breathes out a sigh of relief. She’s never been a morning person, but she can always count on that icy jolt to kick start her day. She washes as efficiently as she can without a designated flannel or sponge, and after hunting in a couple of cabinets for a toothbrush and subsequently feeling bad about it, draws a stripe of toothpaste across her finger and attempts to brush as best she can. By the time she’s finished, hands washed and hair arranged as neatly as she’ll get it without the use of a hairbrush, she feels semi-confident.
With gusto, Kip points at her reflection, a determined look flashing across her face like lightning. “Today’s a new day,” she tells herself with a smirk. “And you’re not going to let Jagger ruin it. You’ll keep your cool, and you’ll kill him with kindness.” Her smirk becomes a sheepish smile then, shoulders sagging a little. “... well, maybe don’t kill him.”
Not even in a hyperbolic sense can she imagine hurting somebody that bad.
With pep in her step, Kip leaves the bathroom and, after stopping to slip her boots on, descends the stairs.
“Just in time.” She turns her head to see Jagger watering one of his house plants, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Against her better judgement, she feels the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. “What?”
“Nothing!” Her hands wave defensively as she looks away from him. It’s not her fault; the image of a ruthless drug lord sparing time to water his house plants every morning is just a little too adorable to fly under her radar. She shouldn’t be swayed by such normal tendencies, but she certainly doesn’t expect them from someone like him. Just like the candles and the soft blankets, it feels so out of left-field that it’s almost laughable.
He puts down the spray bottle with more force than necessary and bridges the distance between them. “Share with the class.”
“What’s his name?”
Jagger’s eyebrows raise. “... huh?”
“The plant’s,” Kip elaborates, arms tucked behind her back as she beams wide.
“What’re you talking about? It’s a plant.”
“I name my stuffed animals,” she replies with a shrug, and her smile widens until she’s positively glowing. Jagger backs away, looking a little disturbed. “It’s only the same.”
“We’re not the same,” he states bluntly, nose wrinkling with displeasure. “What are you, ten?”
Kip clenches her fists tight, sharp fangs pinching her tongue until she feels the urge to insult him back pass her by. Not once does her smile falter. “Try naming them. It’s free therapy.”
“Don’t need therapy.” His voice is uncharacteristically light as he sticks out his foot and kicks a rug aside, revealing a trapdoor beneath it. "Need money."
Kip stares wide-eyed at the secret entrance, suddenly feeling light-headed. They can talk about house plants and gratitude all night long, but come the end of things, Jagger is a man she knows little about. If his occupation is anything to go by– which it most certainly is when she's face to face with a hidden door in a house that he uses only to lay low in– then she can only imagine that there's something nefarious going on down there.
Her eyes follow the broad sweep of his arm as he unhooks a latch and opens the door, eventually settling on that black hole in the floor. Humid air reaches them like the breath of a beast, a faint hint of something spicy reaching her nose. The longer she stares, the darker it seems to become, until it's so black that she thinks it can be nothing other than a gateway to hell. She’s trying so hard not to let him get under her skin, but she won’t lie: this makes her nervous.
If he has anything to say in response to her apprehension, he doesn't make it known. Instead, he drops to a crouch and finds the first prong of the ladder that'll take him down into the basement.
"Come. And pull the door shut behind you," is all he says before vanishing into the dusty depths.
Her options are limited. She gets the feeling that if she climbs down that ladder and enters that room, there’s a good chance she won’t come out of it the same, but what else can she do? The last thing she wants to do is upset the man who has already proven that he’ll do some nasty things to the people that inconvenience him. She doesn’t want to land herself in any more trouble, nor does she want to put Basil on Jagger’s map.
I’ve got a truly rotten assignment for you tomorrow.
Begrudgingly, Kip lowers herself down into the dark, her knees feeling wobbly and weak.
A soft squeak of shock leaves her as the place is suddenly awash with ugly fluorescent light. Its sickly yellow glow illuminates the basement, and Kip gets her first real taste of anxiety. It comes not from something abjectly horrifying, rather the knowledge that she’s been exposed to something that she otherwise would never have seen; a side of life that she was content to know of only from newspaper clippings and crime novels.
Packages. Packages, packages, packages. No matter where she looks, head turning this way and that, the basement is little more than a bunker full of these hand-wrapped bundles. There’s nothing in the room excluding the table they sit on, and hot blazing lamps arranged in a row along the brick wall. In comparison to the house above, the basement is a hole; a bleak, stuffy, vacant void that smells overwhelmingly of pepper, smoke and ash. Kip’s nose wrinkles, creases forming beneath her eyes as she fights back stinging tears. They find Jagger at the far end of the room.
He’s smirking wide, looking the most excited she’s ever seen him look. “Beautiful, ain’t it?”
“It stinks!” she exclaims, watching as he pats one of the bundles with a surprisingly hearty laugh.
“It’s not that bad once you get used to it. And you will be getting used to it. 40,000 paals is a lot to owe, little lady.”
She grits her teeth, refusing to bite. In as neutral a tone as she can: “This won’t cover it? How can eight tiny tabs be worth more than a basement full of stock?”
The look he gives her is one he might give a sulking child. There’s a genuine inkling of pity there. “Y’know, I was still on the fence about you being a massive cheat, but you really don’t know squat about the business, do you?”
“I told you I don’t!” Suddenly, she remembers her mirror pep-talk and how determined she was to have a good day. The contents of this room may be testing her, but she isn’t about to let it break her that easily. Her smile is forced, corners twitching at the grim nature of it all, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “... but I can learn.”
He’s watching her intently, so intently that she feels a little scared to move beneath such a watchful gaze. A gloved forefinger and thumb rub gently together, as if he’s calculating something unseen to her, before he breaks the tense silence with a thump of his palm against the closest package.
“No need!” he exclaims, disarming her with a good-natured grin. She’s never seen him quite this happy, and she can’t decide whether it’s endearing or unnerving. “At least, not yet. All I want you to do is move this stock for me.”
Kip blinks. Of all the things he could have said, this hadn’t even made the list. Slowly, her brow furrows. “Sooo, that super spooky job you said you had for me… this is it?”
“I believe the word I used was rotten,” Jagger replies, stroking his chin as if deep in thought. The light stubble there makes a quiet, scratching sound, and Kip feels momentarily mesmerised. “And yes. This is it.” He picks up one of the many parcels and hands it to her. “How’s that feel? Is it heavy?”
Kip raises an eyebrow at him before tossing the package upwards a short way. It’s as light as can be, hardly a problem, even for a girl her size. “You’re kidding, right?”
Jagger lets out a low chuckle before placing a second one on top. She may not be able to toss it anymore, but they sit comfortably in her hand, weighing no more than the average phone. He repeats the process until she begins to struggle; she can hold about fifteen of them in both arms before it becomes uncomfortable.
“Well, now you need to go upstairs.”
Kip’s smile dims a little. “Huh?”
“Mhmm.” He’s barely holding back a smile of his own. Contrary to what she thinks, Jagger doesn’t hate her. He doesn’t want to cause her unnecessary strife, if only because he has deadlines to meet - but he does feel as if he’s being challenged. This new-found positivity she’s wielding like a weapon only makes him more keen to take her down a peg or two. “I have a van parked out front. It’s painted like a mail truck. You can’t miss it. That’s where they need to go.”
He watches the wheels in her head turn, the full extent of what he’s asking her to do dawning on her like daybreak. Petulantly, Jagger glances at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket.
“It’s just gone five-ten. I need this moved by, ohhh… six?”
“A-All of it?!” Kip exclaims, feeling the life drain from her body. She has no idea how she’s going to lug all of this up and down the ladder in fifty minutes. There's an ungodly number of these things sitting around. Thousands upon thousands of them, if she had to guess.
Jagger says nothing for a moment before mercifully shaking his head. "No. The van won't be able to carry all this in one trip - and it's not all going to the same place anyway. I need two-hundred and fifty of them to go."
“But how am I supposed to move that many on my own?”
“Well, that’s on you to figure out.”
"Okay." Kip breathes in deep through her nose before nodding, a mix of trepidation and determination filling her face as she tries to work out the best way to proceed. To her astonishment, Jagger offers some support.
"You're holding fifteen there. Shed however many you can't carry under one arm and we'll start from there. I will count them."
“Really?”
“Yeah. I don’t trust you to do it right.”
Kip deflates noticeably. It’s the first outward chink in her armour today.
After much trial and error, she finds that if she tucks seven under her arm and two in her jacket pockets, she can move about nine at a time.
The first trip is a breeze. She wriggles her way up that ladder and out of his front door with hardly a pause. This emboldens her - which makes her steady spiral into exhaustion that much more painful. By the twelfth trip, she comes to fear that ladder. She’s a healthy young woman; she was a track runner in college and has lived a life full of secret bases in trees and leaping over rivers as opposed to taking their respective bridges. She still skates with her brother on most evenings and she runs to every gig she gets. Even so, that awkward, one-handed shimmy up the steep ladder leaves her lungs burning and her gut clenching. By the time she’s clearing the last of it out, her legs resemble jelly and she’s trying not to pant for air too obviously.
“H–Here’s… the last of it…”
Jagger is leaning against the side of the van with a yoghurt in his hands. He regards her shaky legs with the ghost of smirk on his face before feeding himself a complimentary spoonful of strawberry, tiny plastic utensil lingering against his lips long after he’s finished. She’s undoubtedly tired (and he knew she would be), but she managed. Despite their contentious relationship, he’s impressed.
“Good job, little lady. And here I thought you’d pass out.” He turns, tossing his now-empty yoghurt cup over her head and into his general waste bin. “What did I tell you? A rotten assignment.”
Kip gives him a smile that reminds him of a switchblade. After a big, stubborn inhale: “That’s the second time you’ve underestimated me, Jagger. You ought to start learning I can take it.”
“Well damn,” he replies, eyebrows raised high. “Check out the attitude on this one. One job strong and feelin’ fine.” He can’t say it isn’t earned though. He really has put her through the ringer already, and the sun has barely risen. He’ll allow her an ounce of victory.
An arm reaches through the rolled-down window of the door nearest before it withdraws with a second yoghurt cup in tow. “Here.”
Kip blinks at it, as if she’s never seen one before in her life. He must not have taken it out of the fridge long ago for it’s cool to the touch. She all but snatches it from him, only realising in that moment how hungry she is. The pink carton is about the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
“Now get in,” he orders, patting the door with a gloved hand before circling the van and climbing into the driver’s seat. She obeys him without question, already halfway through tearing the foil lid from her snack. The passenger seat has quite the incline, but she’s more focused on trying to pull her seatbelt on with one hand as the other feeds her plastic spoon into her mouth. If Basil was here, he’d be criticising her lack of patience something fierce.
“Where’re we going?” Kip asks as the engine hums to life. Daylight is beginning to paint Leylan in its usual golden glow. Soon enough, the early risers will be starting their morning routines, readying themselves for a day of work. Given the type of goods Jagger is moving, it makes sense why he'd want to minimise his chances of being seen.
"I'm taking you home," he answers as he pulls out of the side street and onto the main path. Leylan's roads are narrow and not entirely clear, far better equipped for bikes and skateboards, and the idea of a van this heavily loaded making some of the turns to her house has a knot forming in her stomach. "Tell me your address."
It's pointless, but she still holds her tongue for a moment. Her place of residence feels like the last personal thing she has left. Sacrificing it means letting him into all aspects of her life, and she isn't keen to have that layer of separation broken.
"I can walk it…!"
Jagger glances at her out of the corner of his eye as he fiddles with the radio dial. A smooth, thumping bass line fills the space between them.
"I don't want to trouble you! I–I made it here on foot, I can–"
"Just tell me your fucking address," he interrupts tersely, and Kip stops talking. It seems that no matter how she tries to play it, she's going to have to capitulate. She does so with a heavy heart, settling on finishing her yoghurt in silence. She needs to find a way to explain to Basil exactly where she's been without letting him know about Jagger. If he finds out about the steaming pile of shit she's found herself in, he'll worry himself to death– or worse yet, attempt to save her from it. He means well, but Basil has never been a fighter; she can only imagine the kind of mess that Jagger will make out of him if he tries to play the hero. He'd almost broken her arm without so much as flinching. She dreads to think what he'll do to someone who swings first.
The roads gradually become more and more familiar as time rolls on, and Kip finds herself soaking in the feeling of a car ride with just a little too much willingness. She's never ridden in a vehicle like this before. It differs a lot from a monorail ride, and even more so from rollerblading. There's something intimate about sharing the passenger seat of a van being driven by somebody else; a display of trust she's really quite conflicted about, given her less-than-stellar opinion of the man sitting beside her. As usual, she tries to put a positive spin on it, tries to tell herself that she's not in danger. He might be a little prickly, but he hasn't done anything grievous to her beyond their first meeting. In fact, he hasn't so much as laid a finger on her again since their unfortunate meeting. He could've left her for dead last night but he didn't. He could've let her go hungry but he didn't. He could've physically forced her to do any number of tasks for him at this point, but he hasn’t. No matter how sour he's been with her, there's some good in his heart. She believes in that, if nothing else.
Eventually, her house comes into view. It's a tiny one-story building nestled between two others identical to it on a hill.
"Hold on," Jagger says as she unbuckles her seatbelt, and she pauses obediently. His hand dips into his pocket before offering her her phone. Her eyes widen immediately.
"Oh shoot!" Hurriedly, she accepts it, unable to believe she forgot about it completely. It's definitely seen better days. The screen is cracked and the stickers on the back are fading, but it still works fine. "Thanks… I didn't even think about–"
"Hey. How old are you, Kip?"
The shift in tone all but gives her whiplash. After fumbling over her words for several seconds, she stammers out a confused, "Th–Three thirty…? Why?"
Jagger taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the sound of leather squeaking quietly as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. She looks adult to him, but definitely too young to be caught in the crosshairs of criminality like this. She’s supposed to be full of promise; studying something convoluted that didn’t exist when he was a boy. He can’t understand why a young woman like her, so bright and full of life, is hovering on dirty street corners, robbing people and getting herself into trouble. He can’t just let it slide, not when she’s cost him so much money, but part of him wishes he could.
“You’re too young to be caught up in this shit-storm,” he admits, giving her a sober look. “I’m gonna get you out of this mess as quickly as I can. I don’t want you caught up in this scene for too long.”
The words take her aback. There’s that consideration he keeps denying he has. It reaches into her core, elicits a form of gratitude that she’s never felt before.
“I’m okay. It was an accident, but… it was still my fault.”
“Still. I don’t want you to start liking this life.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever like it, Jagger.”
“You’d be surprised. That’s what we all say,” he says with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. It disturbs the gelled back strands enough to leave some loose, and she looks away as if she’s walked in on him naked. It’s just too strange, seeing him as anything other than the perfectly composed businessman. With a smile that could just as well be a grimace: “Just, be prepared to work your ass off for a couple of months. Then we can wash our hands of each other, deal?”
“Deal,” she replies, returning the half-hearted smile.
“Good. Now go on. Ske-daddle. Get the hell outta my van.”
Kip exits the vehicle, yoghurt cup and all, and stands on the white pavement that leads to her house as the van roars to life once more.
“I’ll be in touch,” Jagger calls over the purr of its engine, almost looking devious against the glare of sunlight that pours in through his window. “I don’t ask for permission. I call, you answer. It’s that simple.”
“Got it.” It’s said through her teeth, pinched and tight, but with a smile that could absolutely class as agreeable. In spite of his tone, he’s made it evident that he’s at least sympathetic to her circumstances. The best she can hope for is that he’s telling the truth– that he really will find her enough work to absolve her of this bothersome life as soon as possible. Her eyes follow the vehicle until it rounds the corner and disappears from sight.
With a sigh, Kip drags herself up the hill and to her front door, unlocking it and shuffling inside.
“Basil?” she calls as she walks into the cramped living room, all too aware of the time. She can’t imagine that he’s left for work yet, but when she pokes her head into his room she discovers that it’s empty. With a frown, she makes her way to her own and plugs her charger into her dead phone. The moment it sparks to life, she discovers that she has seven missed calls and fifteen unread texts from her brother.
Hey, where are you?
Kip, it’s getting late. Are you coming home soon?
I’m at the platform and the last tram just left. You weren’t on it. Where are you?!
She lets out a groan and dims the screen with a click of the power button, guilt washing over her in waves. Her brother may be an anxious mess by nature, but it’s hardly an over exaggeration to be worried about her not coming home. In her heart, she knows that he won’t have done anything foolish-- that he won’t have attempted to brave nightfall-- but she can’t imagine how sick to his stomach he must have been. It’ll be a wonder if he’d slept at all.
The latest message is a haphazard string of capital letters; incredibly out of character, for he’s a stickler for grammar.
KIP. IF YOU DON’T REPLY BY TOMORROW AFTERNOON I’M CALLING THE POLICE! CALL ME.
“Damn iiiit…”
His last call was at 5:34AM. Her phone must have already been dead, because she absolutely would’ve picked it up otherwise, whether Jagger had been breathing down her neck or not.
Quickly, she hits the speed dial and brings the phone to her ear. It barely rings once before it’s picked up. “Hey, Basil–”
“Where were you?! I’ve been worried sick!”
“I know, I’m sorry, I…” She pauses, feeling overwhelmed by guilt and grief and anger. As much as she wants to blame Jagger for this entire fiasco, she knows that she’s the one that landed herself in it. This is what she gets for being a thief. It was always only a matter of time before she got more than she bargained for. “Um… I… lost track of time with my set. Ended up staying over in the bar I played in. My phone died. I’m okay!”
She hears him tut, pacing so viciously that she can almost envision a trail of fire being left behind him.
“I’m sorry, Basil! Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad, I’m–” His words abruptly stop, and she hears the muffled voice of his boss barking orders at him. Her brother mutters a timid “sorry, sir…” before he comes back to the phone. “We’ll talk later, okay? I have to go. I’m glad you’re safe. I love you.”
“I love you too, Bas.”
When the line goes dead, she only feels marginally better. With a defeated huff, she puts her phone beneath her pillow before laying face-first on her bed. She’s been awake for no longer than three hours and she already wants to go back to sleep.
Summary: Not even Jagger is cold enough to force Kip to brave the dangers of nightfall.
Characters: Kip, Jagger.
Prompt: ❝ It’s not going to break. ❞
Warnings: Mild inappropriate humour.
A/N: More Kip/Jaggerstuff because the first one was incredibly fun to write and I have way more ideas brewing with them! I also had a lot of fun describing Jagger’ssafehouse!
By the time Kip returns to the doorstep of Jagger’s safehouse, it’s a quarter to nine. She stands on the uppermost incline with a damp package in one hand and a fistful of her jacket in the other, listening intently as the sound of several locks being slid open signals her temporary boss’ arrival.
When he opens the door, it’s with a smug expression, brow pinched with an irritating faux-calm. “So you actually managed. And here I thought I’d find you dead in a ditch.”
“Like I’d give you the pleasure,” Kip retorts with a haughty toss of her head. In spite of this, there’s an undeniable look of worry on her face. She lives on the other side of town, and they’re cutting it incredibly close to curfew. If she takes to the rooftops and sails high above the streets, she might be able to make it, but it’s still unlikely. The longer he takes peeling back the paper and counting the bills, too, the more on edge she becomes.
Teal eyes hover anxiously on Jagger as he finishes his count and gives her a satisfied nod. “You did good, little lady. It’s all there.”
Without another word, he steps aside and opens the door wider. A rectangle of warm orange light illuminates Kip’s tired features. Her lavender hair is noticeably dishevelled and her jacket is muddied at the edges. Collecting money from people that owe it is a simple enough task, but it requires a lot of sneaking around and lurking in back allies. Hardly the cleanest job around, in all senses of the word.
“Well come in then,” he barks impatiently, watching as her mouth opens and closes several times in surprise as she lingers at the threshold. An invitation into his living quarters, even if unofficial, is hardly what she expected.
“But–”
“You want to take your chances out here after curfew? Be my guest.”
“Wait!” Kip sticks her arm in the diminishing gap between the door and its frame to stop him from closing it entirely. “P-Please… don’t leave me out here.”
With a hefty sigh, Jagger opens the door again and lets her slip inside before locking it behind them. Like every other lyle’s door when dusk befalls them, it will remain sealed shut until morning. Without regard for his unprecedented guest, he moves to the windows and repeats the process, making sure they’re secure. There is a large, webbed handprint on the upper-right pane. One of the ijus must have been on his roof again.
Kip’s eyes roam curiously around his quarters. It’s a small, cramped place that seems secondary to the clunky wooden staircase and the space that lies beyond it. She realises, staring up into that trapdoor-esque entrance to the upper floor, that this ground level arrangement is merely a front; like a liquor store hiding the meth lab located just upstairs. Normal enough to satisfy the average person. There’s an armchair facing a television in the left corner of the room, though there’s a fine layer of dust coating the screen, suggesting that he barely uses it. A cabinet with various plates and cutlery lining the wall draws her eyes to a homely little kitchen. The light is off, and she can't really see anything beyond the threshold in any meaningful detail. Just the vague outlines of cabinets and a fridge-freezer.
"Up you go," Jagger instructs, gesturing with his head to the stairs before he begins blowing out candles and switching off lights, and Kip obeys him with nary a complaint. They creak beneath her gentle footfalls, and as she breaches the top step, she can't help but gasp.
"Holy…”
The room is huge. It’s as if she’s stepped through a portal and appeared in an unfamiliar realm. Beneath her boots is a plush grey carpet, unlike the wooden floor on the level below, and she instantly slips out of them and leaves them on the top step out of respect. She may not be too fond of Jagger, but she isn’t about to trek dirt into his safehouse after he opened its door to her.
Her eyes trace over his belongings with a muted sense of fascination. The bed there is almost comically large, a thin grey blanket draped neatly over its bottom half. Beside it, there’s a circular bedside table with a scented candle and a small pile of books on it. The room smells vaguely of cinnamon, and various potted plants give the space an earthen tinge.
Her head naturally inclines as she spins in a slow circle. His entire outermost wall, save for the edges, is one large sheet of glass. Reinforced like every pane in Leylan, she has no doubt about that, but she’s never been inside of a house that has such a large window before. She can’t help but approach it, knocking her knuckles gently against its surface as if she expects they’ll pass straight through. All that she receives is a dull thunk. That familiar sturdiness provides her with instant relief.
“At least you took your shoes off,” Kip hears Jagger say as he enters the room with her. He looks different with his coat off; tailored purple waistcoat complimenting his lean figure in a manner she would find attractive if not for the personality attached to it. Even so, the sweep of his dark hair looks distinctly less put-together when he’s surrounded by pillows and candles. It isn’t what she expected of him at all.
She shuffles away from the window, her expression sheepish. “Of course I did.”
“Well do me a favour and take the rest of it off,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand, ignoring the spatter of outraged colour that fills her cheeks as he moves towards a door and opens it. His arm sticks inside, fist closing around something before withdrawing and tossing it at her. “You stink.”
She gawks, first at him, then at the thing she’d haphazardly caught. It’s a fresh white shirt, free of creases and dirt, and a pair of shorts. A derogatory retort sits on the tip of her tongue like a poisonous barb, though his kindness– even as tightly wrapped in unpleasantness as it had been— touches her just a little too deeply to spit it at him. She can imagine that after the day she’s had, she really does reek.
The tension leaves her body as she gives in. “Fine. Where’s your bathroom?”
“Right beside you, dumbass.”
Kip’s cheeks puff up as she eyes the door that had previously gone unnoticed. Asshole. “You stink,” she announces petulantly before stalking into the bathroom, not catching Jagger’s annoyed squint as she closes the door firmly behind her.
The first thing she notices is how chilly the floor is, even through her socks. It prompts her to look down, making eye contact with marble tile that has her mouth falling open. In light of all that she’s seen so far, she probably shouldn’t be so surprised, but she is. She’s never occupied a house as expansive as this one in all her life, nor one that’s as objectively lavish. All she knows is wooden slats and mismatched rugs; a heartfelt attempt at fashionable organisation. Jagger’s safehouse possesses elegance. Charm unbefitting of such a brute, she thinks spitefully. He’d be way more at home in a muddy cave.
As she slowly looks up again, the stark white of the bathroom takes her completely by surprise. It’s spacious, and so clean she’d readily eat off of its damn floor. There’s a bath atop a podium preceded by three stairs, and a large glass shower cubicle with her name on it. After taking a moment to simply marvel at the set-up, she determines that she should actually get moving. The water scalds, but she doesn’t bother to fix it, instead letting the heat wash both the dirt and the stress of the day down the drain.
By the time she emerges from the bathroom, she feels - and smells- much better. Jagger looks up from the book he’s reading to stare at her, expression unreadable as she lingers awkwardly in the doorway. The curtains are drawn closed now, the large window blocked by black velvet that seems to shimmer wherever the light hits. Glitter?
“Give me those,” he orders as he puts his book face-down, gesturing to the clump of dirty clothes in her hands. Black nail polish catches the candlelight briefly. Protectively, Kip draws them to her chest and gives him a suspicious look.
“Why?”
“To wash them?” To his credit, his confusion is well-placed this time around. He can’t imagine what else he’d do with a bundle of dirty clothes. “Seriously, why would you ask me that?”
“You’re a delinquent,” she utters sharply, her eyes narrowed. “Who knows what you’d do with them.”
Jagger holds her gaze, equal parts amused and irritated with her. The gall of this girl… what an idiot. With a purposefully antagonistic smirk: “What, you think I’m gonna steal your panties or some shit? Give ‘em a sniff while you’re not looking?” He scoffs, as if the idea repulses him so much that he has to physically expel it, but the hot, angry blush on her face almost makes it worth it. At the very least, she’s cute when she’s affronted. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Go to hell, you weirdo!” In an act of defiance, Kip flings the clothes at him. Thankfully, they remain bundled in her jacket, and he catches them in one unperturbed swoop.
“You’re a piece of work, lady,” he tells her with a grimace, picking up his candle before exiting the room. She strains her ears to listen as he makes his way down the stairs before his footfalls vanish completely. After a moment or two, the low whir of a washing machine can be heard, followed by his steps gradually coming closer again. Anxiously, Kip fiddles with the drawstring located at her navel. He’s quite a bit bigger than she is, broad and fairly tall, and it’s only through tying it tight that his shorts are able to stay nestled around her little waist.
When he enters the room again, he doesn’t so much as look at her. Instead, he crosses the room until he can tug the blanket draped over the edge of his bed into his arms, scooping a couple of cushions up before he turns to look at her.
“You can sleep there,” he informs her, nodding towards a seat that she’s been side-eyeing for the past five minutes. It’s vaguely egg-shaped, with the exterior of a woven black basket. It hangs from a metal frame, suspended by two thick chains. “Go on. Sit. Or curl up. Do whatever it is you do.”
Kip eyes it dubiously before doing as she’s told, clumsily arranging herself atop the plush white padding until she’s vaguely comfortable. She can’t imagine Jagger being able to do so, but her short height makes it possible for her to stretch her legs.
“It’s not gonna break, you know. You can lay down properly,” Jagger says as he feeds one of the cushions behind her shoulders, hand gently pushing her back until more of her weight rests against the swing seat’s wall. When it doesn’t so much as rock, she feels a little more confident; lets the tension in her body go until she’s fully relaxed. “Yeesh. How heavy do you think you are?”
She doesn’t get to reply before he begins tucking the blanket around her. It’s much too big to fit within the confines of the seat, but the material is light and flowy, meaning that even when it drapes over the side it doesn’t weigh too much. It pools on the floor around her even when she’s fully nestled in there, her head the only thing poking above its grey surface.
It strikes her then, just how kind he’s being. He likes to act as if he hasn’t got a nice bone in his body, but his clear concern for her comfort overrides that narrative. He could’ve left her downstairs, alone in the dark, but no-- he’s invited her into the room he sleeps in, letting her into the most intimate part of his quarters without a hint of hesitation. This may not absolve him of his brutish nature, but it certainly makes her think. He’s not as hateful as he makes out. Not as cold as he thinks he is.
The stare she affixes on him is round and doe-like. “Thank you.”
There’s a moment of silence between them that stretches thin, chock-full of things that neither of them have the time nor the guts to say.
Eventually, he settles on a plain: “Don’t mention it.”
“I will mention it,” Kip replies resolutely. “You didn’t have to take me in. Or let me use your bathroom. Or give me blankets. I’m grateful for that.”
The gaze he levels her with is alarmingly open, surprised. It’s the kind of look that a troubled child gives a birthday gift. That kindness isn’t for me. What lies beyond that pretty packaging? Do I dare disturb that perfect little bow?
Jagger reaches out and flicks her forehead, evoking a sharp “augh!” from the girl as he straightens out. “Sheesh, you're a pain,” he laments, hands resting on his hips as if he’s a disapproving parent. “Of course I’m not going to leave you out there after dark. What kind of monster do you think I am?”
Kip clutches her forehead with both hands and hisses: “Asshole, you’re an asshole!”
By all accounts, that feels better to receive than her gratitude. He tries not to think about those large, appreciative eyes as he turns away from her and heads back towards his bed. He can’t remember the last time he was thanked for anything. Not even his customers say thank you. Though he hesitates to admit that something embarrasses him, this does.
Only when his back is to her does he think to speak again. “Get some sleep. I’ve got a truly rotten assignment for you tomorrow. Consider it compensation for my charity.”
Kip huffs and rolls her eyes, turning her head as far into the pillow as she can get it without straining her neck. In a petty whisper: “Can’t wait.”
