searchingfordistraction

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moving day

". . . you want me to what?"

"I know you heard me."

"I think," Moran said, "it's time we discuss my next pay rise."

Jim rolled his eyes. "This isn't a job, Seb, it's a favor. You're free to say no."

Moran eyed him for a moment. Then he pulled out his mobile.

Long story short, here he is now, in a fake flat, with fake possessions in need of fake removal to another fake flat, with Jim all kitted up as Rich Brook on the sofa next to him, waiting for the doorbell to announce the arrival of a man who decided Icarus Removals was the kind of name that would inspire confidence in potential customers.

Jim fucking owes him.

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"I don't think so."

Another item to add to the list of Douglas's talents: the ability to make an actor decline an opportunity to be recognized.

But because Rich is an actor, there's no indication of tension to go along with his reply. His tone is casual, his body language flat and neutral. He seems to see nothing odd whatsoever about the situation.

He is not giving Douglas a thing to work with if he can possibly help it.

The problem with this is that Douglas is good. After a few more moments of studying Rich, he snaps his fingers.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "You look an awful lot like someone I saw on the telly, reading some nonsense or other to a bunch of four-year-olds. Not that I'd admit to doing that, either. I can't imagine it gets you much luck in the bedroom department."

(Somewhere in the middle of all of this, Martin left to go fetch more boxes, telling Rich not to let Douglas touch anything, and in a tone that suggests Douglas touching something means that something will disappear.)

And somewhere around the point where Martin left, he relaxed a little, leaning against the wall with his head tipped to the side in a lazy way that suggests, very subtly, that Douglas would do well to keep his hands to himself.

"Do I?" he asks idly.

Remember what we said about Douglas being good? He's definitely good enough to notice the subtle changes in the person he's talking to, and more than that, he has an inkling as to what they suggest, beyond the obvious.

"Mmm, must have been my mistake," he says.

He's onto you, Rich. He might not know the full extent of what's going on, but he knows when he's being played.

"These things happen."

He makes a thoughtful sound.

"Douglas Richardson, was it?"

No doubt he won't need to remind Douglas that Martin never mentioned his last name.

No, Martin did not. And he's not the sort to give out the full names of people he knows in conversation, either.

"That rather depends," he says.

He doesn't ask the clichéd bit of that, partially because Martin comes back with another load of boxes to put away, and partially because he's never been terribly fond of clichés.

(Martin seems to be ignoring them in favour of being angry with the entire situation, and goes right back outside as soon as he's put the boxes down.)

While Martin is in the flat, Jim's body language shifts to imply just enough of Rich's awkwardness to avoid drawing his attention.

He keeps it after Martin's gone again.

"On?" he asks, voice rich with amusement.

"On the son of a bitch who thinks he's going to intimidate me by asking," Douglas practically growls.

He has the advantage in size and he knows it, but he doesn't go throwing it around like some meat-head. If this 'Rich' chap is smart, he can tell that he's as good as out-numbered right now.

Not that it's going to come to that if Douglas can help it. It's not really his style to go throwing punches at greasy little bastards like Rich.

He moves quickly, stepping away from the wall and into Douglas's space.

He doesn't seem concerned at all by how much the move emphasizes the disparity in size between them. He also doesn't seem amused anymore; that vanished the second he moved.

"If you're very lucky, darling," he says, "you'll never know who I am. This is me giving you an out. I suggest you take it."

And now it's Douglas' turn to play, and he rather thinks himself clever.

"Or what?"

He smiles, sharp and with no humor in it at all.

"Or you'll find out."

"Charming," Douglas says. He's bored now. He has half a mind to stick around to make sure this psychotic little bastard doesn't hurt Martin, but he really would like to have an 'I told you so' moment.

"Anyway, I really must be going now."

He doesn't bother with a goodbye, and on his way out, he passes Martin. After a brief argument about emptying pockets (which Martin somehow manages to win), Douglas gets into his car and drives off.

(Martin, to his credit, actually manages to resist picking up a rock at throwing it at the car as it drives away.)

Rich emerges from the flat a moment later and steps up next to Martin, frowning.

"He seemed nice."

"Sorry about that," Martin says. "Most people don't actually like him, so it's OK if you don't. They only tolerate him because he'll drive you mad otherwise."

He frowns at the spot the car had been parked and goes back to loading boxes onto the trolley.

He shrugs.

"It's all right," he says. "Not your fault."

One of those statements may be a lie. Hint: it's not the second one.

Martin sighs deeply, trying to calm himself down. It's a small miracle he hasn't had a heart attack yet, for all Douglas does to his blood pressure.

"I've only got a few boxes left," he says. "Then we can go back and get the rest from Sebastian. He's probably needing more help."

"Yeah."

He runs his hands through his hair, giving himself a little shake.

"Good thing I came instead," he remarks, deliberately lightening his tone. "Seb would have punched him."

Which would not have done much for anyone's punctuality.

"I don't think he'd be the first."

Oh, was Martin supposed to defend Douglas right there? Sorry, he's not really in the mood to lie to himself (or Rich) about the relationship he has with him.

He takes the boxes inside now that he's somewhat calmed down and stacks them next to the rest, having completely forgotten where they'd come from. Seb can work it out when he unpacks.

His fault for leaving them unlabelled, anyway.

Rich is quiet as they finish up; he doesn't talk again until they're back in the van, when he blurts out,

"I may have done something a bit stupid back there."

"Oh, god," Martin says. "You didn't try to bet him on anything did you? He always wins, usually because he fixes the results somehow."

He's still convinced that Douglas somehow manufactured that thunder storm.

"No, um."

He is not squirming. But he might be blushing a little.

"You know that performance art thing I told you about? Where I play that mad criminal?"

"Oh, you didn't?" Martin asks.

And then he laughs, because what else can he do?

"I guess that explains why he was so keen to get out of there all of a sudden."

"Yeah, I did," he confesses.

He looks hopefully up at Martin.

"You're not angry?" Because that was kind of what he was expecting. He'd be less than thrilled if it were him.

"Are you kidding?" asks Martin. "I can count on less than one hand the amount of times I've seen someone get one over on Douglas."

He's actually quite chuffed, and can't wait to rub this one in Douglas' face.

He relaxes, immensely relieved, and grins.

"I tried not to let him get to me, but I couldn't help it," he says. "But I could tell that if I put one foot wrong, you'd hear about it for the rest of your life. So I guess I decided to get creative."

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