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The newspaper in Billy's hand crinkles when he hands over the money for the fare and steps out of the taxi. His focus is already on the big house in front of him - curtains open in the early afternoon sun, but no sign of life inside. If he came all this way to sit on a stoop and wait for some rich academic asshole, Billy's going to shoot someone.
"Hey!" the cab driver snaps. He's leaning across the seat to glare at Billy through the passenger's side window. "Fares have gone up, you owe me money."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Billy mutters. He turns back around and looks through the window. "Did they go up across the board, or did your fares go up for this ride only?"
"Listen, buddy, if you're going to swanky places like this, you can afford a price hike," the driver says around his cigarette. "So fork over the cabbage."
"Fork over the - I hate Boston." The newspaper makes an angry crinkling sound when Billy waves it, leaning down towards the window. "I'm answering a job ad, meaning I need a job, meaning I don't have a lot of money," he growls. At least he assumes that's what 'cabbage' is. He hates Boston. Not more than Indiana, but it's hard to hate any place more than he hates his father's house.
"Excuse me." The voice is posh but sharp, and Billy finds himself gently but firmly shoved to the side by a man in a suit and homburg hat. "I'll take care of it."
A homburg hat, for Christ's sake. "No, you won't," Billy snaps in reply. He likes the cab driver more than the fancy asshole next to him right now. "He's just trying to cheat a few more cents out of me." He digs in his pocket and pulls out a dollar. "Will this cover it, you lying son of a bitch?" He doesn't like the cab driver that much.
The cab driver snatches it out of his hand. "Sure will." He grins around his cigarette, suddenly friendly. "You want me to wait?"
"Do I want you - no, I don't want you to wait!" Billy smacks the top of the car with the hand that's holding the paper. "God only knows how much the return trip would cost."
"Suit yourself," the driver says, settling back into his seat.
Billy watches the car pull away with a scowl. "I fuckin' hate Boston," he mutters to himself, and turns back to start heading up the steps to the front door of the house.
The man who had tried to pay the fare for him is still standing there, in his stupid hat with the stupid feather in the brim. He looks about as unimpressed with Billy as Billy is with the cabbie. Maybe less likely to devolve into profanity - he looks refined, in his suit with his fancy hat, lips pulled into something that Billy can only call a pout. He's attractive, big brown eyes and clean-cut, plush lips that are accentuated and, well, cute in that pout. He's someone Billy would call "doll" if they were in the right kind of bar, try to charm into a night.
As it is, though, they're on the sidewalk in the swanky part of Boston, and Billy's got somewhere to be. "Excuse me," he says, giving the man a nod and something that might be able to be called a smile, if you didn't look too close.
The man doesn't move, though, just raises his eyebrows and gives Billy a look. If Billy's not mistaken, he wouldn't be terribly out of place in the right kind of bar either. "You're here about the security job?" He gives a pointed glance to the newspaper still in Billy's hand, and adds unnecessarily, "For the expedition."
"I am," Billy replies. He's a little torn. On the one hand, he's never gotten along with very ritzy people. On the other, something pleasant to look at would be nice for a long expedition. "Are you on it?" He might have already blown it, though, might not have to make a choice. He's a little rough around the edges, he knows.
"It's my expedition."
Billy studies him for a second, looking for any hint of a lie. Then he glances down at the paper again, reads the ad, and back up. "Aren't you a little young to be Professor Harrington?"
"I get that a lot," the man says, and then he's holding his hand out. "Steve Harrington. You must be Mr. William Hargrove."
When Billy takes it, Harrington's hand is warm and soft, unsurprisingly free of callouses. "Billy, if you don't mind, Professor." He holds on a little longer than he should, but he's got a feeling here. A little spark of interest that he hopes he's not imagining.
Harrington doesn't look put off. In fact, he glances at their hands and then back up at Billy's face, mouth parting just slightly. His face goes a lovely shade of pink, but he doesn't pull his hand back until Billy lets go first. "Mr. Hargrove," he says, pulling his lips back into a pout. To Billy, it looks like he's trying very hard not to smile, like that would be giving up. "If you'll follow me."
Billy does. He follows the good professor up the steps, and very carefully doesn't admire the way he walks or the cut of his suit. Harrington gets the door unlocked and holds it open, ushering Billy into a dark foyer and closing the door behind him. The house looks almost sterile, like it hasn't been lived in for a long time. The smell of dust is in the air.
"This way," Harrington says, and immediately veers from the foyer up a set of stairs. Billy hadn't noticed when he took his hat off, hanging it on a coat rack by the door, but now he sees the way that the dusty sunlight coming through the windows plays on his hair, turning it from brown to gilded. He almost misses what Harrington says as they walk, too enchanted by the way that his fingers grip the banister.
It's probably a bad idea to be this besotted so soon. Before he's even sure that Harrington swings the way he does. Sue him, he's always been a sucker for a pretty face, no matter whether it was on a boy or a girl.
"You come highly recommended from a good friend of mine. I hope you can live up to what she's told me about you." They reach the top of the stairs, and Harrington pulls out a ring of keys, flipping through them and squinting at each one as he stops in front of the door.
Billy stops beside him, leans his shoulder on the wall and watches as Harrington searches for the one key he needs among the dozen or so. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear in rumors, Professor," he says, tries his best to look innocent when Harrington looks up at him from the keys.
There's a pause, and it once again looks like Harrington's trying very hard not to smile. "So you didn't singlehandedly talk your way through a barricade in Florida with a hold full of rum from the Bahamas a couple of years ago? I also recall something about a temple in Peru."
Well. "Okay, you can believe a few rumors," Billy admits, breaking into a grin. To his delight, Harrington gives him a smile in return, reluctant like he can't help it. "In my defense, I wasn't the only one on that ship."
"I know," Harrington says, and finally gets the door open. Actually, no - Billy realizes that the door has opened but he's still got the keys in hand. He looks up, mildly surprised. "Sorry, I was trying not to wake you up."
"I don't need beauty sleep, Steve," Billy hears. He knows that voice. "Well, look what the cat dragged in. Was that you I heard hassling the hard-working cabbies of Boston down there, Hargrove?"
"I paid the grifter," he replies, and grins in spite of himself. This is turning out to be a good job, indeed. "You eavesdropping on my private conversations, Buckley? On top of telling stories about me?"
Robin Buckley looks every bit as mischievous and dangerous as Billy's ever seen her, albeit this time without the sea wind in her hair and a gun in her hand. She's still wearing trousers, though, and Billy thinks - not for the first time - that Max would like her an awful lot. "I've only been telling the truth. You bring nothing but trouble, Hargrove, and you know it." She says it with a smile, though, like it's an old joke.
And well. She's not wrong. "I'll show myself out, then," he replies, and doesn't make a move to head down the stairs.
"Mr. Hargrove," Harrington says, and when Billy looks at him he's looking back, eyes bright with something Billy can recognize. Something Billy's seen in mirrors and on Buckley, even - the thrill of something exciting coming, of going somewhere dangerous and doing what no one else has done before. "Trouble is exactly what we need."