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The bar was empty tonight. Shane picks up a crystal glass and wipes at the droplets of water with a cloth, making sweeping glances across the dim room, careful not to linger on one group for too long. Busy nights are easier, the customers talk intensely amongst themselves and easily take hold of the drinks passed to them across a counter or tray, no one notices the bartender.
The company he has tonight seems mostly tame, nothing really worth listening in on.
The wood door creaks open and he looks up, allowing his eyes to scan over the man who walks in, his dark coat and shirt collar flecked with dots of white that melt away as the warmth of the room crowds in. The lights behind the counter slip across his face and Shane feels himself tensing, he knows that face, that easy gait and step.
The man pulls out a stool and perches on it, placing his elbows on the polished wood and lacing his hands together, head slightly bowed, the lines of his body sharp with purpose.
"Anything I can get you?" Shane asks. Casual and careful, no harm meant.
"Money, candy," the man paused, lips twisting in a wry grin, "A knife."
Shane's hand flexes around the glass, and the man's eyes catch the movement. Shane almost has to force out the chuckle, "Sorry pal we don't sell that last one."
"Did you think I wouldn't notice the Fairbairn–Sykes you've got under that jacket?"
Shane holds himself steady, stifling his instincts to shift, to gain a vantage point in case he had to break out of this place. There isn't any reason to be alarmed just yet. He huffs out a laugh, dropping his gaze from the man's and tilting his head, "Honest, how much did you already drink before coming here? I won't tell on you."
"Don't play games with me," There's a cold edge to the man's voice, stalking Shane's gaze with his own until the taller man can't help but look, the lines of his eyes hard.
"Detective." It was a statement, a fact.
"Goldsworth." Shane returns, because there is no point in hiding now, fuck, he might even be done for tonight. He hadn't spotted that many weapons among the patrons, but the man owned the damn bar, and there is no telling how many of these people are his.
Shane kicks himself mentally, he should have brought more than just his daggers, some backup would have been nice too.
But it's not like anyone would have wanted to come.
He sets the glass and cloth down with a gentle clink, letting his hands hover at his sides as he openly studies the man across from him. He might not get the chance to do so again.
"A month you've been here," the man says, flicking a wrist as if checking the time on the sleek black watch, voice cool and conversational, "Tell me, do you enjoy running errands for the corrupt sons of bitches at the Station?"
"I have my reasons." Shane tells him, tells himself really.
"Do you now?" the man's face shifts and the mask drops a little, and Shane can suddenly see the strain and exhaustion written there. It's strange, the months prior spent digging and tracking the mob leader had let him see these not the role he plays, but the man beneath.
"Let me be straight forward, hmm? I know you." Goldsworth tents his fingers and straightens, chin straight and a challenge in his eyes, "Grew up in Illinois, violent father, law school, Academy training, etcetera, etcetera." He paused, and Shane had just enough self-control to not show a single thing, thank you very much. He got where he is by himself after all, and it's not like he had anyone else.
"And now you're here." Goldsworth concludes.
"And now I'm here." Shane repeats, and when the man twirls a hand in 'go-on', "You want me to defect."
It's not like he hasn't thought about it, but it was too much of a risk, to too many people.
"Is it defecting if you didn't have any loyalty to speak of?"
"You're delusional." Shane grits out, hands clenching below the edge of the bar where the man couldn't see. He feels the pressure in the room build, and suddenly the touch of his shirt collar seems too much, the brush of the stiff fabric closing his throat up in a phantom ache, a pain etched deep into his skin.
"Am I really the delusional one here detective?" There is a gentleness in the man's voice that Shane doesn't know what to make of, he shifts on his feet and tries to keep his face blank.
"You're a good man, a smart one. You know the stakes you are playing with."
Curious that he should receive such words on a job, and from a criminal too. Shane's frozen in place, unable to reply and too weak to tear his gaze away under the stacking tension. Goldsworth's just using them to toy with his mind, he tells himself firmly, he should just brush them off.
But he can't, because the words are genuine.
And it has been so long since he heard them last.
"Look, if you want to keep to your shitty purpose, then, by all means, it's like I never said anything. But the offer stands." Goldsworth leans forward, and even with nearly a foot of height difference, Shane finds himself near shaking at the intensity of the man's gaze.
"If you keep digging, detective, we will stop you." The gentle murmur of conversations continues in the background, the soft light blending them into a single voice, rushing round and round the two of them in a dizzying swirl.
This really wasn't how he imagined their first encounter to go. That had envolved a lot more violence, the drawing of weapons and the press of blades to backs and throats, not soft conversation.
But now he's here, and he might as well deal with it.
"I'll keep that in mind." The words make it past the tightness in his throat, and Shane gives the man a thin smile, pressing his hands to his sides to quell their trembling. This really shouldn't affect him this much, he's tired, exhausted really, the past months have taken more of him than he'd ever admit. Yes, that has to be it. Get a hold of yourself Madej, it's not your first case.
"Now," Goldsworth rubs his hands together and leans back on the stool, and the pressure in the air lift in an instant, so quickly it nearly leaves Shane reeling.
"How about that knife hmm? You do still work for me, well," Goldsworth taps a finger against his lips, flashing a smirk over the counter, "Charles C. Tinsley' does, anyway."
"I don't share." Shane lifts his chin, returning the man's stare with as much strength as he can manage, trying his damndest not to shiver at his alias tossed so unceremoniously back in his face.
"You keep telling yourself that." Goldsworth chuckles, standing in a fluid motion and straightening his coat, "That's a wrap, thank you, everyone." He calls out to the room.
As one, the patrons stand, gathering hats and jackets and heading towards the doors. Shane takes a step back, eyes wide, a hand twitching back to grab hold of the hilt of his knife.
Goldsworth follows them, turning back at the door to give him a solemn nod, a soft tilt to his brow, "We'll be meeting again soon. Good night Mr. Madej."
And the doors are creaking closed, leaving Shane standing in the pool of light thrown by the bar lights, now completely empty.
Well fuck.