WAYFARING STRANGER

TATE SAWYER MASTER+29 And I'm out on a limb but before that bough breaks I'll have one final memory, worn by mistake And when midnight fell, drop like a stone I got a short fuse to burn and I'm a long way from home

[sashabialane]

[theformerflyboy]

[That smooth drawl of an accent took Kit back. For a moment he could almost feel the sand of Iraq blowing into his face, the smell of gunpowder and stone dust, the good old American army lads making jokes about the Queen and putting on overly posh attempts at English accents. But it was a good memory—one of a few, from his second tour over there—and it was nice to have a good trip down memory lane for once.]

You lot are all Brit descended anyway, mate. You just lost all of your culture when you fucked off over to America. [Kit’s tone was lightly teasing, a mischievous glint in his eye. He hit the elevator button for the second floor after a moment of actually having to think about it. He’d been moving shit into his new place all day, and there he was, getting distracted by handsome Americans.

As the elevator began to head up, Kit propped his chin on the top of his cello case, watching the bloke.] So, are you gonna tell me which branch of the military you were in? [The corner of his lips tipped upward in a curious smirk.] I can always spot an ex-army bloke. Call it my secret power.

[tate-sawyer]

[His laugh is a bit raucous, magnified by the small space of the elevator, bouncing off the walls and coming back to him.] We fight a war of independence, and this is the shit we get. "Oh you're all Brits anyway."

[He shakes his head slowly and tsks. He finds it easy to be deadpan, though his smiles come easily they slide off his face just as soon, leaving him neutral, leaving him free to paste on whatever other expression he might like. But the other man's face is lively, life in his eyes and a smile quirking his lips.

And it feels more easily familiar, shifting to shop-talk instead of what had, to this point at least, been Tate's private life, kept behind closed doors, blown wide open when he decided to move here. And just the mention of his service has his spine tugging up straighter, unconscious reaction as he slouches against the elevator wall, a kind of ease he's practiced at and relearned. He'd embraced civilian life, much more than Andrew or Jonathan had, but he knows he can't shed all his learned instincts so easily, he wouldn't want to.]

U.S. Marines. [He doesn't chafe at being recognized for what he is, tips his head towards him with a small sardonic smile.] Oorah.

[He pushes off the wall, extends a hand.] Tate Sawyer. Gonna tell me about yourself?

[johnny-falkland]

[Johnny stopped playing with the ice when he realized the man really did want to have a conversation with him. Hearing the man’s words, his eyes flick over towards the couple again who were still flirting but now the blonde was sitting in the man’s lap. Watching them made him realize just how fuckin’ sad her probably looked to the outside world.] Yeah.. well, I’m pretty sure that’s my default face now. [He picks the drink up and places it on his lips.] Sorry if it bothers you, mate.

[Once the glass was back on the bar, he turned to face the man that was now sitting next to him, a light smile on his lips as he spoke.] Nah, not really. You’re an attractive man, who looks nice enough. I’m sure this is all part of your plan. 

[tate-sawyer]

[He slides into the stool next to him once it seems like he's not being rebuffed, throws a grin the bartender's way as his drink is refilled.] Doesn't bother me, was just looking for some company and thought you might be doing the same.

[And there isn't quite enough bite to make him think that he's miscalculated, so he grins in his direction as he takes a slow sip of his whiskey, looks at the man smiling back.] Oh, I have a plan? Please, tell me where it ends.

[lili-bowen]

[Lili knows that her brittle nature isn’t exactly conducive to her occupation, but it’s just the way that she is, and she can’t help it. Despite her circumstances, she’s not worried about business tonight, anyway. It’s more a time for her to reacclimatize, to give herself some transitional period between her life and Tottenham and her life here, because God knows that they are too different for her to really wrap her mind around so quickly. And anyway, if she does have an off-putting sort of nature tonight, Tate doesn’t actually seem to mind it— at least not visibly— so she laughs at his joking, head tilting to the side.] Ah, good, then we’ll get along. 

[There’s another lull in the conversation, and this is where she’s supposed to ask him about himself— “What do you like to do in your spare time? What brings you to the Apartments? What’s your job?” Lili isn’t one to pry, though— is used to her dodgy neighborhood in Tottenham, where everyone knows to mind their own business and keep their faces forward— so she just lets the silence stretch for a moment, draining the last few drops from the bottom of her glass, before finally speaking.] So, d’you reckon you’re leaving early, or are you going to stick it out the whole time? I have an incredibly shit series waiting for me to binge watch it on Netflix, so I’m leaning toward ditching. But not too soon— I wouldn’t want to be rude. 

[tate-sawyer]

[He can appreciate those that wear their guardedness so plainly. She smiles, she converses, but its clear to see that she's not open. Not now, not with him. And he understands that, because he's never seen the point of talking about himself.

Andrew had found his expunged juvenile record in a very thorough (invasive) background check. He had to know who he was going into business, he said, and it had made Tate angry, because he'd thought he'd proven his mettle time and time again with him. But Andrew needed facts, needed Tate's school transcripts held in his hands, an old police report, hospital records. Tate never needed any of that to feel like he knew Andrew, knew Jonathan.

He can prove himself through his actions, his deeds. He doesn't have to trot his wayward youth out into the light to be known, to be seen.]

Haven't decided yet. [He shrugs, an easy smile.] Figured I'd stick it out as long as the drinks are flowing and the company's enjoyable, but if Netflix is calling your name feel free to gracefully bow out. I'll find someone else to latch onto. [He's poking fun at himself, a rueful grin.]

[theformerflyboy]

[It wasn’t that Kit didn’t like tall people. Tall people were just fine, and no more likely to pull a gun than any other person, really. But Kit, standing at a whopping 5’7”, would admit to getting more wary of them than average-sized people. It was the potential combat advantage of superior height and reach.

So, normally, he’d clam right up. But there was something familiar about the way this guy held himself, something that said ex-soldier in a big way. And sure, soldiers could be shitheads too, but Kit wound up relaxing anyway, shooting a grateful grin at the bloke as he hauled his cello case into the elevator.]

Alright. [He paused momentarily, mentally searching for a good one.] How about I call you Britain, yeah? That way I can really serve my country.

[tate-sawyer]

[His laugh comes out as something of a bark, stopping him short for a moment before the elevator doors start to slide close, forcing him to get his ass in gear and step inside, absentmindedly pressing the button for his floor as he pushes sweaty hair back out of his eyes, a gesture that's become habitual now after years of having it grown out.]

Points for effort. [He says, grinning too. His accent comes thick, with its slow syrupy drawl. He'd never bothered to learn to be ashamed of it, to learn to clip his syllables into something more indistinct, less likely to be written off as "redneck" in the circles he ran in back home. Andrew did, but Andrew always cared too much about how people thought about him.]

But I'm not sure if my patriotism will allow it. Stars and stripes all the way, baby. [His grin ticks upward at one corner, crooked in his overblown patriotism. He'd served his country for want of better options. True patriotism was just yet another thing that had never taken root in him, left him looking around, observing it and aping it, wondering what he was missing.]

[haydenmai]

[One single plucked eyebrow arches at the laugh - at the skepticism and cynicism that it so clearly indicates.

Interesting.

That chuckle alone is enough to endear Hayden to him, at least a little bit.  She could only fucking hope that he’d never find a River of his own, someone that would stay with him long after they left.  That kind of hurt and loneliness she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemies.

Okay, maybe some of them.

But Tate clearly wasn’t in that category, at least not at the moment.  Hayden didn’t really have enemies, not in her mind.  Her last go round at the Apartments had found herself with a surprisingly fair few, but it had always rolled down her back like water on a duck or whatever that fucking metaphor was.  They may have held ill will, but she didn’t.  Hayden rarely did.]

Realistic expectations don’t always keep you safe, but good fucking luck. It’s a start, at least.  I guess liking the person you’re spending money on isn’t too ludicrous, but there is something to be said about a good ole’ hate fuck, you know.

[tate-sawyer]

[Tate does have a crush. Tate has a stupid fucking crush that he's been nursing for years. And he thinks that maybe it could have gone away, if Andrew hadn't been purposefully stringing him along.

No one else has ever come close to that kind of permanence, though no one else had so literally saved his life, either. He's pretty sure it's a special occurrence, even if it's one that he's gone an ocean away to get some distance from, hopefully fuck out of his system.

Because he's not stupid enough to not realize when he's being toyed with.

He's not sure if he can say for sure what he wants, here. It's too early to tell. He doesn't know what kind of person falls in love with an escort, thinks they can make it work. If it's romantic or just foolish gullibility, convinced that providing is service is providing — something else.]

Well, I guess if you hate them, you don't want to spend money on them. At least, that's where I think I stand. [But then, he can't think of many people at all he's really hated in recent years.] And good fucking luck to you, too, since you're on the other side of this minefield.

[johnny-falkland]

[Johnny sat in his seat at the end of the bar, his head resting on his hand as he alternated playing with the ice in his drink and watching a couple in mid conversation sitting a few seats away from him. He wouldn’t have paid any attention or really cared at all if the woman who was trying – and by the looks of it succeeding – to pick up the poor man didn’t look so much like Jade.

Muttering angrily at himself for bringing her up he finished the drink quickly before sliding it back to the bartender for a refill. When the glass was a third full again it was placed in front of him so that he could resume playing with the ice that floated in the clear liquid. Hearing someone sit down on the stool next to him broke his concentration. Lifting his head, he spoke roughly] You say somethin’?

[tate-sawyer]

[Tate doesn't always do bars well. He can do smalltalk if he needs to, the kind of idle chitchat that one has with strangers. He's good at it, usually leaves people with a good impression of him. He just doesn't see the point. When he walks away at the end of the night, they're still strangers.

But that's if he does walk away. But he historically hasn't been very good at pulling in bars, either. Usually just sets himself up with a drink and waits to see who comes to him. Flies, and he's the honey.

He's trying something different. Outside of his comfort zone and pushing himself even farther, breaking from all his staid patterns in search of something new.

Of course, that doesn't help when the guy doesn't even hear him.]

Just that you looked lonely. [He shrugs, an easy grin, taking it in stride as he slides into the stool next to him, pushes his empty tumbler across the bar for a refill.] Kind of ruined my smooth entrance there, though.

[maxiekat]

[theformerflyboy]

[It was probably a faux pas to wear giant sunglasses inside, Kit figured, but they helped, what with today being his first day and all. He knew he’d have to deal with being recognized eventually, but if he could just put it off for a day or two… that’d be nice.

Then again, hauling a cello case that was nearly bigger than he was through the lobby didn’t do much to not draw attention to himself. Neither did cursing more colorfully than a sailor every time it banged against his legs.]

Fucking cello. Bertha, I’m gonnae toss you out on your fat fucking arse. Christ, fucking shite on a prick-ridden- [It appeared he had company as he arrived to wait for the elevator. Oops. Kit tried for a apologetic smile.] Sorry, darling. Can I offer you a terrible pick-up line to make up for having to hear all that?

[tate-sawyer]

[It's impossible not to notice the man wrestling a cello case across the lobby, cursing up a storm as he does so. Tate's waiting by the elevator, sweating after a morning run.

He figures a routine will help him settle in here, something comforting among everything else that's so strange. And besides, he doesn't want to hear from Andrew the next him he goes home that he's allowed himself to get "paunchy."

The accent's lilting and thick, much more musical when it's throwing an endearment his way instead of cursing a cello, and as the doors slide open he grins, gestures for the man to proceed him into the elevator.] That I won't say no to. Hit me with your best shot.

[escortezrabelrose]

Alright… well, if you insist. [The boy gave a faint chuckle and a smile began to tug at his lips. Sometimes he felt guilty for allowing himself to smile, especially when it was caused by another man, because he knew despite the fact that Daniel had encouraged him back into all of this, he would quickly grow jealous and angry all over again, and somehow it would be Ezra’s fault. The boy swallowed the thick lump in his throat and once again pushed those thoughts out of his mind.]

[Ezra gripped the boxes and once again started to walk, but at a more casual pace now. He couldn’t be dealing with dropping any more boxes or un-expecting passers by. He laughed softly at Tate’s words.] I meant to ask if you were a client or an escort.. but I suppose you’re right, most people are here for sex. [He said light-heartedly.] Nice. Good view I bet?

[tate-sawyer]

[The smile on the escort's face is small and wavering, and Tate meets it with his own: a little more fixed, steady and warm. He's a nervous one, and it fills Tate's head with all kind of question. About what he's doing here, if he's happy with it, if he's coerced. There's a bruise on his face and something skittish in his demeanor and Tate's biting his tongue with all the questions he won't ask.]

Whoops, sorry — client, if you hadn't figured that out. [He's taking the stairs slowly, keeping pace with Ezra, leisurely flow to conversation as they walk with his boxes.] I guess so, if you like city streets and apartment buildings. [It's still smiling, not a true complaint. But while Tate liked the bustle of a city, the way that there was always something to do, aesthetically he was more drawn to sprawling greenery, something more solitary.]

Are you a new face or one of the older ones? [It's conversational, but it's a way to couch some of his worries in the flow of casual conversation.] Do you like it here?

[haydenmai]

[It was hard to get a read on the new face, something between a marvel and a frustrating itch she couldn’t scratch.  Hayden wasn’t always the most observant, but when it came to clients, she usually had a good idea of likes and dislikes and what appealed by this point in the conversation.  Tate, however, seemed to play his cards close to the vest.  And while she could appreciate that from a personal standpoint - fuck all knew that she was the same - it was near infuriating.]

You hire based on more than looks and kinks and you risk falling in love with a prostitute, and that rarely ends fucking well.  [Hayden shrugged as she said it, well aware that she wasn’t in the category of ‘prostitutes to fall in love with.’  Didn’t bother her in the slightest, in fact, that was a comfort.]

[tate-sawyer]

[It's Tate, it's always been Tate, who has come out of his few failed relationships feeling used and left. It's his fault, he does it to himself. He likes the feeling of being needed too much, only to realize too late that it never lasts. That relationships like that have an endpoint, once his partner has outgrown his usefulness, no longer needs his assistance, can stand on their own.

And maybe it's petty, maybe it's also doomed to fail, but he's decided to be on the other end. He's paying, he's using. He just doesn't know if he has the stomach for it yet. But he's sure that they'll let him pretend that they need him, that they'll make him believe it for a night.

Tate knows love that aches and then fades, doesn't even leave a scar behind. He doesn't know exactly what it takes, to have a love so tragic that it never fades, that it always hurts. If that actually happens to real people or if it's just in movies. Because whatever it is, it just isn't in him. And so he laughs a little bit at the idle warning, because falling too hard or too deep has never been his problem, it's always been the opposite. He hardly falls at all, picks himself up with little fanfare.]

I don't — know if I'm so worried about that. I hope that I'm pretty realistic about the whole thing, I've got no dreams about happily ever afters. I just think that it's not absurd to want to at least like the person I'm fucking.

[evan-wolfe]

Eye of the beholder? I guess ya have a point about that. [He appreciated the way Tate talked. He was kind without being a boring—adding on to the conversation in his own way that inadvertently brought more attention to the words that he didn’t use compared to the ones that he did. It was the complete opposite of how Taz talked—trying to fit as many words and sentences as he could in one breath at a time. The contrast was interesting to witness. 

However, at the phrase ‘this’, his brows furrowed in confusion. There were multiple words that could have substituted for this: Whorehouse was one of the first words that popped up in his mind and it left a bad taste in his mouth. No matter how much time has passed, the phrase whore always felt like acid to bare skin.

But judging by the smile that followed the retort, it obviously wasn’t meant to be offensive and it’s not the bloke’s fault that Taz was a little butt hurt by the truth of his situation.] Never been to AA before, but I guess that would be the best comparison. But instead of tryin’ to avoid drinking more than five cups at a party, it would be avoidin’ five tits…or cocks if that’s ya thing. [He corrects himself at the end just to be safe, before laughing at the impassive response.]  Evolved dildos are no jokin’ matter, yeah? It’s dangerous stuff there. 

[tate-sawyer]

[He could push it further, if he were to really commit to the idea of flirting. But he thinks he has to find his stride, figure out how this works. Well, he knows how this works. Money changes hands, he gets what he wants (whatever that may be, and that's a whole different question). But it's all the in-between moments that he doesn't think he's quite imagined. How to make the jump from idle conversation, maybe some light flirtation, to paying money to have some naked in his new apartment.

It's, well, it's a lot. So he just lets his smile grow warm, more personal, tilts his glass in something of a silent toast to their agreement. A light implication that he's a pretty pleased beholder. It feels like enough, for now.

And it wasn't like he was trying to be suave, but if he were, he's pretty sure it's all out the window with the way he sputters out a laugh, head dipping to the side as he considers.] I'm pretty sure there's a Sex Addicts Anonymous too, but I don't know if they have a motto. Lots of possibilities there. [It's easy enough for him to school his expression back into something serious. When he laughs its usually genuine, loud and unrestrained, but it slides off of his features as quickly as it comes, leaves him somewhere pleasantly neutral.] Utmost seriousness, I assure you.

[denverkane-blog]

[Denver is dripping marginally less now, having shaken out his jacket, yet he can still feel rainwater sliding down his hairline, persistent and irritating. The concierge hands him his key, simple, classic and gold, and he pockets it before moving to the elevator, heedless of curious eyes on him. 

A commodity, a new face, and he wonders what the bloody hell he’s doing here for at least the thirteenth time. 

‘You’re on extended leave until I deem it otherwise.' M had said. 

‘You’re running yourself ragged.’ That had come from one of the assistants, chiding as they tested the full rotation of his shoulder and his clenched his teeth in an effort not to scream.

‘Perhaps it’s time to settle down, 009.’ M’s secretary, figure framed the doorway of the rehab room, just as they decided to wrench his bones more fully into the proper alignment

He’d snarled at her. 

The elevator door is inevitably closing as he approaches, and of course, an arm extends to be buffeted by the doors and hold it for him.] Thanks. [It comes out huffy, brusque as he always sounds.] 7 if you don’t mind. 

[Denver only takes a cursory glance, too broodingly irritated to be paying much attention. Yet his instincts, drilled into him by countless years of knife-edge paranoia, don’t allow him to dismiss the man entirely. The spread of his shoulders, the way his weight is balanced seem military-grade. The shaggy hair, and schoolbag doesn’t. It’s a curious juxtaposition that Denver can feel piquing his interest and also setting his teeth on edge.]  

[tate-sawyer]

No problem. [He nods once, punches the button with little fanfare. Leans back against the elevator wall, loose ans casual, sure that his hair is leaving a wet smear on the mirror that will dry streaky, mar its surface.

And he can't help but be aware that there are people here whose job it is to clean up after every mess he could make. It's unnerving, and has him straightening back up even though the damage has already been done.

It's not how he likes to make a first impression, soggy and dripping on marble floors. But he thinks that maybe he can learn to accept being out of his element, unimpressive. Not in control of his environment.

His elevator companion has none of that ease. Gruff and coiled tight, something in Tate stands up and takes notice. Accepting not being in control of his environment is one thing, but willful unawareness is quite another. And in a place so intimate, everyone's personal lives butting uncomfortably close to each others', he wants to know who and what he's in for.

Reconnaissance, even though it's hardly life or death. Mostly, it's just being polite.]

Moving in? [He's aware its rhetorical, doesn't leave much space for a reply as he pivots, offers up a hand, the gesture too practiced to be as loose and casual as the rest of him is, an ingrained businessman's handshake.] Tate Sawyer.

[oh-these-abs-deactivated2017010]

[haydenmai]

Or pretending to.  [Though if pressed, Hayden wouldn’t know whether she was actually letting the cynical side of her fall away for a moment to give Tate the benefit, or if she were doing what she always did in this arena - been bitterly and almost brutally honest.

Things change.  People change.  And maybe she had.

Or maybe she needed a stiff drink because that was way to fucking deep to think about in the middle of a party where she was wearing fuck all for clothes.]

Oh goodie, another one of those, huh?  Just know you’re playing a dangerous game with that.

[tate-sawyer]

[He snorts, and he doesn't take it too personally.] Appreciate it. [It's offhand, it could mean anything. He doesn't care one way or the other, doesn't need his ego carefully sheltered from harm, from whatever scathing opinions of him she could be keeping to herself. He doesn't need to demand any kind of pretension. But nor does he need to demand to know her true mind, have everything stripped and exposed to the light. As far as he's concerned, she can play whatever game or role she wants. Whatever she's comfortable with. And Tate will deal, or he'll move on, depending on how much he likes what he sees.

For now, he's still here.]

And by that you mean — ?

[maeve-otoole]

[Her grin widens at the slight joking, the offer of a drink making Tate seem slightly less reluctant to be there. She knows how it feels to feel a bit out of place in the Apartments— Christ knows she was certainly a bit out of her depth the first couple weeks that she was there— and while his reservation is endearing, she doesn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, either. They’re at a party, after all, and Maeve is talented at nothing if not making such events enjoyable for everyone around her. Maybe she should have gotten a job in the entertainment industry— but then again, she thinks wryly, maybe she sort of did.

Unhooking herself from the wall, she stands up straight, smiling blithely up at him as she answers his question.] Whiskey. It’s a shit brand, but it’s free. [She shrugs; she doesn’t even remember what brand it is, and it’s not horrible, but nothing will ever measure up to Tullamore Dew in her eyes. She supposes that she’s probably a bit biased toward it, though— she did come from the whiskey’s hometown, after all.] Right, we can’t have you running out. I think the alcohol was the main draw of this whole event. And the nakedness, obviously, but if you’re not partaking in one— [And from what she could tell, Tate wasn’t, not tonight]— you might as well take advantage of the other.

[tate-sawyer]

[Maybe it's a little bit of weakness on his part, but he needs the drink. And the real pathetic part is that he doesn't think it's so much that he needs the burn in his throat that he just — needs something to do with his hands.

It's ridiculous, he's good at standing stock-still. A statue of himself, man-at-arms. But weaving through the crowd here, he'd gotten the feeling that his hands should be elsewhere — should be wrapping around the slender curve of a waist, his grip a cuff around delicate wrists.

And it's not that he doesn't feel the itch. He does, he'd just wrapped his palm around cool glass instead.]

A girl after my own heart. [It gets wryer by the end, as he realizes what he's saying as he's saying it, because he's pretty sure hearts don't have much place here. The tilt to his grin says that he recognizes the irony, keeps him from getting caught with his foot in his mouth, and he gesture with the hand not holding his empty glass towards the bar.] I can't buy you a drink, but I can at least take you to the refills?

[sergtbucky]