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Ziggy's just wiped the last remnants of his line off the counter when the bathroom door bangs open, hitting the wall and making him jump halfway out of his skin.
It's not like he's particularly afraid of being caught—about half the staff here are on something, and definitely more than half the patrons, from what he's seen so far, and no one seems worried about the police raiding the place, obviously—but depending on who's coming in, it might not give a great first impression, and he really needs this job to work out, now that he's burnt his bridges with the record store and the rest of his underground life—obviously there is a certain vintage cool to doing coke in a club bathroom he also doesn't want to look like he needs it to do his job, so—
But it's only Zero's beefy security guard, the one with the nice long curly hair. He throws Ziggy a cursory glance and steps into the room, swinging every cubicle door open and checking inside, and then he brings his wrist to his mouth and says "Clear" into some kind of device that he's got tucked in there just like in the movies.
Ziggy sniffs and the guy looks back at him.
"No one's here," Ziggy says, which is very stupid because the guy definitely already knows that by now, but he can't stop himself from saying stupid shit on his best day so it's not like he's going to start now, not with the way his lips are tingling and his leg is twitching and his thoughts are jittering around in his head like it's one of those antique pinball machines.
"Security check," the guard says, which is delightfully redundant and makes Ziggy nod seriously anyway.
"Definitely nothing nefarious or illegal to report here!" he says, trying for serious and probably missing by a fucking mile, but he still tries to look cool and composed, leaning against the counter with his hips pushed out, because man he's getting a little bit horny now, there's a bit of bass coming through the floor from the club below and he's about to go do a set for the most powerful people in the country and there's a frankly pretty hot guy right there in this confined space with him—just one of those would have been enough to put him in the mood, let's face it, a stiff breeze does it most days and it's so windy up here in the high levels, what's up with that anyway—
"Haven't seen you here before," the guy says, cutting through the static of Ziggy's thoughts.
"Huh?"
"I haven't seen you here before. You new?" The guy is looking at Ziggy with a serious business face now, like it just occured to him that he should investigate him the same way he just investigated the bathroom.
"Very astute," Ziggy nods. He licks his lips, taping his nails on the porcelain sink along with the rolling rhythm shaking the floor, a very pleasant feeling, tatatak tatatak tatatak tatatak, very nice.
"Who hired you?" the guard asks, and Ziggy's gearing up to tell him his whole life story, honestly, and that would probably make them both late but he doesn't know if he could stop once he gets started, so it's really convenient that as soon as he says "You know Sadia?" the guard cuts him off with a raised hand. Nice, long fingers.
"Fine, yeah, don't want to know," he says, which, okay, seems weird for a guy whose whole entire job should be to know stuff, but whatever.
"I haven't seen you around either," Ziggy realizes out loud. "And that's weird because I've seen a lot of people, like, are you one of the literal handful of law enforcement types in this town who don't moonlight at the underground clubs or the rave pit or the red district over on Block 17?"
"Er," the guy says—Ziggy should try to find out his name, it's pretty rude that they've been standing here for probably whole minutes and he hasn't even asked—he's pretty rusty at the flirting thing but this new career move should really help because who's hotter than the DJ? Nobody, that's who.
Oops, the guy was talking this whole time and Ziggy definitely didn't catch any of it.
"—kept pretty busy, too," he's saying when Ziggy tunes back in.
"Well, if you're ever interested in some extra, tax-free cash, I could—" he's about to say 'introduce you' when he remembers that he's left all that behind, all the club owners who knew him and the bouncers who let him in without patting him down—or just enough—and the other regulars he always made plans to catch up with in the daytime but never did. And Marie-Jeanne.
It's hard to remember why he left, suddenly, and a wave of unease washes over him, tightening his chest and making his mouth taste bitter. But hey, it'll pass, it's just the blow, he just needs to keep his mind off it.
"I could give you a few names," he keeps going. "Guy like you? You'd be very popular with the boys, the ladies, and the everything-in-betweens, does wonders for your love life, a nice little side-job downstairs on the downlow."
The guy scratches his throat, adorably uncomfortable at the once-over Ziggy gives him, eyes lingering on the nice broad chest under the black coat that must feel super stifling indoors.
"Noted," the guy says, and then, "I don't think I'll need that any time soon, but thank you."
Very polite.
"You're welcome," Ziggy says politely as well, because his mom raised him well, and even throws in a salute—the guy isn't currently military, but Ziggy hasn't yet met a law enforcement or private security type who wasn't in the army during the War so it's a pretty safe bet—maybe those nice strong fingers have actually killed someone, and isn't that terrifying and/or hot, Ziggy can't really settle on one.
"I have to—" the guy says, nodding back to the door.
"I don't suppose I can interest you in a classic bathroom blowjob before you go?"
The guys flushes crimson—very cute—and shakes his head, which Ziggy would be a little more dejected by if he hadn't started regretting making the offer the second it came out of his mouth—the taste in his mouth is still sort of there, the weird metallic fear-taste that would probably not pair well with dick, plus he still needs to swing by the office and sign his contract with Jean or Jenny or Julie or whoever he was on his way to see when he ducked in here for a quick pick-me-up and got well and truly sidetracked.
"Look, I'm flattered, but—"
"Yeah, no, I thought so, don't worry about it," Ziggy says, shooing the guy off with a flapping hand, layering his send-offs to make sure he's got the right one in there. "No offense! See you around! Duty calls! Maybe next time!"
A gust of bass and actual melody bursts through the door and gets muted again when it flaps closed, and then Ziggy's alone with his reflection again. Showtime. His hair looks awesome, and if there's bags under his eyes from his recent sleepless nights he doesn't think anyone will notice from his perch on the raised platform.
MJ would have—that thought gets squashed mercilessly before it has time to bite. Choices were made. Today is the first day of the rest of his life, and MJ just didn't—No. Another squashed thought.
He fumbles a hand into his pocket and grabs the baggie. There's a little left which he was going to keep in case of a mid-set slump or maybe a post-set celebration, but maybe he should just do it now and chase these mosquito-thoughts away before they get too distracting.
Yes, that's what he's going to do. Just another line, a small one, just to top himself off. That's what he needs, and then the night awaits.
The first day of the rest of his life.