Chapter Text
Monday, October 18
Monday morning dawns gloomy, with raindrops falling gently through the mist. Simply rising from the bed takes Herculean effort (on account of the unholy amount of soreness in your arms) and your choice of fashion reflects the struggle. Autumnal slouchcore thankfully matches the vibes, but you also can’t cha-cha slide your way into clothing any tighter than a potato sack.
Things don’t get better when you arrive at the shop. Performing basic tasks — such as grabbing stock from moderately tall shelves, reaching forward to prep the drip coffee, and basically any other reaching and grabbing activities that are necessary for doing your job — is straight up difficult.
It’s pathetic, really.
And yet the show must go on. As soon as the shop opens your smile is in place, and you manage to greet the morning crowd with some semblance of cheerfulness. At least you’re working with Connor and Monique, who can hold down the shop — you know, should you suddenly collapse and be unable to rise from the floor.
The morning passes slowly, allowing you several opportunities to chat with the regulars about Halloween plans, this year's adorable pumpkin patch, and how cute the shop decorations are.
The quiet lasts till around 8:30, when a crowd shuffles in en-masse, damp and in a hurry. By 10:30 you’ve managed to run through your stock of milks, cups, and energy. You’re just about ready to drop into a chair for your break when Sevika walks in, dressed in workout gear and a profusion of sweat. Both Connor and Monique magically become model employees working at peak efficiency as you approach the register.
“You good?” You ask, inputting in her quad shot macchiato with almond milk.
“I’m fucking fantastic.”
Her smile is feral, and it takes you several beats to realize that she isn’t being sarcastic. She does look incredibly pumped, both literally and metaphorically.
“Nice.”
“Hell yeah. Toss me one of those mango chutney burritos will you?”
“You don’t want it warmed up?”
“Can’t wait. I’m starving.”
You shrug and pull one out of the fresh-and-ready fridge. She’s already backing away, but her right hand is out and waiting for you to throw the burrito. After a brief hesitation you toss it. The aim’s a little off (you know, on account of the pain), but she catches it easily before dropping onto the nearby couch next to a terrified looking freshman. The poor kid looks like he’s going to have a panic attack when she starts tearing at the foil with her teeth.
“What’s wrong with you, kid? You look like you’re about to call life alert.”
It takes you several seconds to realize she's talking to you.
You chuckle ruefully. “Yeah, I feel like I need life alert. My arms are so sore.”
She spits out a piece of foil. “From what?”
Her look is full of warning. You'd known you wouldn't be able to talk being at the firing range with Sevika and Jinx, so you'd already come up with an alternate explanation.
You sense your coworkers pretending like they aren’t listening in on your conversation.
"Oh, I went shooting yesterday at an indoor range. But nobody told me I'd be so sore that I would have a hard time brushing my teeth in the morning.”
"You'll get used to it after a few sessions. You and me should go sometime. I can give you a few useful pointers.”
You almost miss her subtle wink, which she covers by taking a huge bite out of her burrito.
"Yeah. That would be great, actually. Thanks."
"I'm going Thursday."
"I work close Thursday."
"Perfect, I wanted to make it an evening session anyway. I'll text you."
"Okay, sure."
There's one problem solved. Sevika has, in front of witnesses, confirmed the two of you are on friendly terms.
It's a bit of a relief to know you don't have to hide this piece of your life from friends and coworkers.
You head to the espresso machine to make Sevika’s drink, and moan as you’re forced to hunch over to collect a fresh bag of beans from the lower shelves beneath the machine.
Connor snickers as he shuffles cartons of oat milk into the fridge.
“It’s not funny,” You chuckle, then groan as you straighten up and your side cramps. “Ugh, why?”
Monique heaves an armful of cup sleeves onto the counter, cellophane crinkling. “I can’t believe you actually went to a shooting range. I mean of all the various forms of entertainment you can find in this town, you chose to go shoot a gun?”
“I think it’s great,” Connor says enthusiastically, “My dad bought my sister her first pistol when she was thirteen, and you can bet your ass no boy has been brave enough to cross her.”
“Well that’s probably because your sister looks like she could break a man in half with her bare hands.” Monique points out.
“You ain’t wrong,” Connor concedes. “So boss, who was your second?”
“My what?”
He looks at you funny. “Your partner. You can’t go to a shootin’ range unless you have someone with you.”
Monique makes a face. “Why?”
“Because they don’t want anyone coming in and shooting themselves,” Sevika says around a mouthful of chutney.
Monique looks horrified. “Oh my god.”
You think back to all the forms you’d filled out at the range, and how many of them asked about your psychological and mental health. It didn’t connect at the time.
“I had no idea.”
“Yeah.” Connor remains serious for a moment before he regains the mischievous glint in his eye. “So you go with a boyfriend or what?”
“I was with my sister’s boyfriend,” You reply, thinking quickly. “He’s a Sheriff at Piltover PD.”
Monique perks up. “The cute one with the Australian accent?”
You make a face as you turn the knob to steam the almond milk, but the noise isn’t enough to cover the snort that emanates from Sevika’s general direction. You have to agree with her on this one. “Cute” is not exactly an adjective you’d apply to Marcus, but obviously your sister disagrees.
And Monique, clearly.
You dab the foam onto the espresso and round the counter towards the sofa. “Yeah, I guess.”
Connor whistles. “Damn boss, you really need to stop borrowing your sister’s boyfriend and get one of your own.”
Silco appears in the forefront of your mind, and you lock eyes with Sevika as you pass her the cup.
She smirks.
You straighten up as fast as you can and head back behind the counter, trying to replace your expression with one that you hope is enigmatic, rather than awkward, excited, and guilty.
“Maybe she just doesn’t know where to look,” Monique grins as she starts stickering cups. “You should have been at The Last Drop with us last night, we could have hooked you up in no time. The place was flooded with Piltover preppies and their pet international students. There was one especially fine British specimen over by the bar.”
“Long legs, and rather chesty?” Connor asks delicately. “Yeah no, I’m pretty sure the boss don’t swing that way, do ya boss?”
“Nope.” You say, suddenly extremely interested in wiping down the bar area, so as not to accidentally catch Sevika’s eyes again. It might be your imagination, but she’s giving off extremely smug vibes.
Monique only sighs. “It doesn’t matter anyway, she was with some pink haired chick who glared at everyone who tried to approach.”
“Plenty of other fish in the sea,” Connor’s expression becomes conspiratorial. “Like the barman.”
You perk up. “Cal?”
“We told him we worked here, and he said to tell you hello.”
“Aw!” A warmth floods through you as you clasp your hands to your chest.
“He was pretty good lookin'," Connor muses.
"More like hot!" Monique exclaims. "But like, the way men in Peaky Blinders are hot."
“I see you boss. You like the posh, dangerous types.”
More than you realize.
You grin. "I am partial to suits and a good fade. And a little bit of underground rock.”
“Well, Cal said he might come and visit soon.”
“I hope he does,” You say honestly. “I miss that guy.”
Connor and Monique exchange significant glances, and you decide to let them think whatever they want. Cal would be a good decoy for when you start visiting The Last Drop more often.
Sevika sets the shot glass down on the counter with a thud. “I’m outta here. Need anything? More tomatoes? Oat milk? A wheelchair?”
Monique snickers, then catches herself.
You roll your eyes. “Ha ha. No, we’re good, thanks.”
“Good, I don’t have time to help you out anyways. I’ll see you Thursday.”
Sevika exits, and Connor and Monique start onto the topic of Cillian Murphy and Tom Hardy, their romantic partners, then their favorite celebrity couples. You greet the next customer who walks in, content with the thought that tomorrow, when you get off work, you’ll get to see your posh, dangerous boyfriend.
Monday Afternoon
On a whim you stop at The Lanes to pick up a few random art supplies before heading to the Verizon store. The place is empty when you arrive, which is great, because you have no idea how long it’s going to take to transfer all the data to your new phone. A girl walks up to greet you, but when you mention that Silco sent you, she directs you to a guy chilling against one of the freestanding kiosks, named Kyle.
Kyle is a thick and rather unassuming man in his mid thirties with dark skin and the eyes of someone who is tired of life most of the time.
“Yeah, Silco told me you’d be coming,” He says dully, taking both phones out of your hands. “Just transferring all the data?”
“Yep.”
Kyle hits the power button on the new phone, then the old. He blinks slowly and appears to be holding back a sigh. “It’s on low power mode.”
“Oh! Yeah, sorry about that,” You rustle around in your purse until you find the charger and hold it out to him. “The battery life has been terrible lately. I can’t get it to stay charged for longer than a couple of hours.”
“It looks like an old model. They’re known to do that.” He runs a finger over one of the myriads of scratches and dings around the corners before plugging it in. “You want a case for your new phone?”
“Yeah. As you can see, I’m not exactly careful with my stuff.”
He nods over at the wall, “The cases are right there, if you want to take a look. I’m going to the back real quick to grab a new sim card.”
“Thanks.”
You wander to the wall. They have extremely limited choices — two, to be exact – So you choose the cuter of the two. You also grab one of the magnetic card holders, to replace your phone case wallet before heading back to the kiosk.
Kyle wanders back in several minutes later, sim card in hand. “Okay. Uh, well, pull up a chair, this'll take some time.”
You sit on one of the tall stools across from him and wait.
Kyle has you input the password to unlock the screen, and after several seconds he grunts. “It looks like your battery peak efficiency is around 76%.”
“It feels more like 50%, to be honest.”
“Huh.”
And that’s the last thing he says before he continues with the work. For several minutes he goes back and forth between phones, and there are several instances when you have to insert passwords, and he passes the phone over wordlessly. Ten minutes into the visit the transfer starts, and Kyle gets on his phone.
You zone out, content with the quiet after a long morning of cheerful, if not banal, conversation.
“Sorry,” He sniffs after several minutes. “I’m going on my lunch soon, so I’m ordering food from next door.”
“All good. What are you getting?”
“The Ultimate Cajun Pasta.”
“That sounds good.”
He nods, you nod, and you both descend back into your separate worlds. Eventually you prop both arms on the counter and slump forward. He gets off his phone and leans onto his forearms, staring at nothing.
All in all, you like Kyle. He’s a rare salesman who understands the value of understatement.
The transfer finishes fifteen minutes later, and he hands over the new phone. “Everything should be good, but I’d check to see if the apps are all there and in the same place.”
Everything’s in order, as far as you can tell, and you let him know. You pay for the phone case and card case, and pocket the new phone.
He holds up your old one. “Silco said this was a trade in, so I’m going to keep this.”
“Sure. Thanks Kyle, I appreciate it.”
He sends you a lazy wave, and as you turn to leave you spy him slipping the old phone into his back pocket.
You wonder about it as you slip on the new phone case, then text Silco.
“Everything’s transferred onto the new phone! So now you know for a fact that if I don’t answer your calls, I’m purposefully ignoring you.”
You send it with a winky emoji and don’t anticipate a speedy response, but it arrives by the time you get home.
“I’m glad to hear it”
You smile fondly as you change into your cozy at home clothes (also slouchcore, but without any sense of style), pondering how Silco’s texting style is slightly akin to a suburban dad. Like yours, for example.
At least he doesn't sign off his messages with LOL (as in "lots of love", as your dad once informed you), though you wouldn't exactly be opposed.
You cue Netflix and head to the kitchen to prepare a late lunch.
“Don’t worry, I would never purposefully avoid you unless I’m doing something specifically I know you won’t like.”
“Then it’s a good thing I asked Kyle to give me your passwords, so I can track your phone”
You stare at the words as the microwave heats up a single serving of Chicken Paneer, and Jorts bumps against your legs, informing you that it is also time for her own lunch to be prepared.
It’s supposed to be a joke, You think as you crack open a can of cat food.
He is a horrible texter, and doesn’t understand the nuance.
You hope so anyway, but the text comes across as slightly worrying --- Probably because you know he’d actually do it.
You think back to whether or not Kyle was watching you when you put in your passwords, and you can’t for the life of you remember.
He did put your old phone in his pocket.
Did he clear the old data? You can't remember if he wiped it or not, but you're pretty sure he was supposed to.
“Kyle’s a dirty traitor," You respond, only half joking.
“Remember I own everyone in this town”
Again, a slightly alarming response, and the delayed winky face he sends only adds another level of worry.
"Haha, believe me, I know!"
You set out the cat food, upon which Jorts descends like a ravenous wolf. You put your food on the coffee table and carefully remove a sketchbook and set of graphite pencils from the bulging bag of art supplies harvested from The Lanes. After settling onto the floor and curling up in a cozy blanket with your back propped against the couch, you scroll to your favorite comfort show and hit play. When Jorts is finished with her lunch she jumps onto the couch and lays down next to your head, purring loudly.
As soon as you're done eating, you open your camera roll and scroll to one of the few good pictures you've managed to find of Silco over the last few weeks. You stare at his picture and examine him with your rusty artist's eye.
When Connor said you had a type for posh dangerous men, you’d thought it was a good joke. But examining Silco now, you realize just how accurate that might actually be. A mysterious business man with his circle of well trained hired hands. He knows everyone, sees everything, owns most of the town.
You try not to think about it too much as you dive into sketch work, getting used to having a pencil in your hand again. It's easier than you thought it'd be, and pretty soon you fall into a zone, hardly even recognizing when your sister gets home. Crocs appears and hassles Jorts before settling into a ball of fur on the opposite end of the couch.
You try a quick portrait of Silco and are dissatisfied with the results. You try again, this one better, but your hands are cramping now. You sketch until all you can see are the sharp, razor-like angles of Silco's cheeks and jawline, and the depth and texture of his scars.
Day changes to night. You don't realize just how dark the room has gotten (or how close your face has gotten to the paper) until the lights turn on, and you recoil from the light.
"Nguh." You croak, rubbing your eyes.
"Man, I haven't seen you do art in ages," Allie says, plopping down onto the couch behind you. She points at a sketch. "That one's good, you really captured his essence."
"His eyes are crooked."
She tilts her head. "His head's at a 3/4 angle, and that's always weird to work with."
Crocs wiggles her way beneath Allie's ipad and onto her lap so that your sister has to work around her.
Allie scratches her head. "Are you going to paint his portrait?"
"I want to try," You sigh. "but his birthday's Saturday, so I don't think I can get it done on time. I figured I could at least attempt it though."
"They're good attempts, sis. You'll get there."
"Thanks."
You take a short break to chat about your day, swapping stories about difficult customers, telling her that Monique thinks her boyfriend is cute and laughing at Connor's accidental wisdom before settling back into a happy, comfortable rhythm with your respective art work. At 11:15 you leave Allie on the couch working on a new page of flash tattoos, and fall into bed satisfied that you're well on your way to creating a passable portrait of your posh, dangerous boyfriend.