Dodger grinned to himself, eyes closed as he enjoyed the sunlight. Funny thing ‘bout coffee shops–no one figured they was anything ‘sides what they was. And certainly, not much to go a’wondering ‘bout in a coffee shop. Another thing ‘bout coffee shops worth h’appreciating was the chatter. Folks near was always either talking ‘bout themselves or figuring ‘bout what to speak on next rather than worrying on anything else.
Of course, he’d gotten a place out of good sight from any CCTVs and there wasn’t any cameras to worry on elsewise. A little table just at the edge of the outdoor patio of the coffee shop was just the thing, he figured. And he nodded to the bloke as he approached, the body fitting the description he’d be given.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir. You wanting coffee mayhap? Tea?”
———FOUR THOUSAND YEARS ALIVE DID NOT MAKE METHUSELAH A FOOL. his work in london had hit a roadblock of sorts, a death in the network, a man he considered close. the underbelly of europe had evolved in his time as a gun for hire. still, assassins were a commodity that seemed to only grow older, a generational shift with their inability to pass on the trade. he wondered about that, seeing the young man beckoning him over. criminals could now die of natural causes and the young would take their place.
❝ i’ve had my morning cup already. ❞ the statement fell as he sat himself down across from his newest contact. he had nothing on the kid, not a name nor an age. to his knowledge, his own information might not have been as secure. the name methuselah was, at best, a childish epithet.
❝ so tell me about yourself ; forgive me if i’m a little dubious, you seem very young. ❞
———❝ FOR SOMEONE AS SMART AS YOU, you seem to be quite tone deaf. ❞ hands clasped in a nylon hold, the man tried his restraints with a mark of disdain. the mafia had their ways with knots it seemed. gaze lifting from his feet, the man rolled his head from side to side, trying to ease the ache in his neck.
❝ tell me again why a brat like you needs a gun like me? ❞
trying to get back into painting using @ladead‘s oc
———The strip club was fairly well known in the area. It took a bit of convincing, one or two newcomers at the firm hoping to take their boss out for a bit of drinks and fun. This was the kind of unprofessionalism he could admire. Steering away from the drunken crew, he noticed the man from across the floor. He could tell he wasn’t a customer, approaching now to see he was behind the bar. Sidling up to the counter, he had ordered a drink and gazed.
❝ God, I’m definitely not drunk enough to be here. ❞ A smile quirked on one side. Yelling over the music, the German nursed his glass, careful not to let the movements knock it from his hands.
❝ I’m not usually the type to come to this kind of place unless its my birthday, but consider this the unusual. ❞
———❝ My, my, Whittaker, you haven’t aged a day. ❞ It was a silly joke between the two of them, Elliot opening the door to his apartment and giving the other a cordial hug before he entered. Such was their friendship, distant and close all at once.
He hadn’t kept track of the years, always travelling and keeping himself busy. Being what they were, it seemed natural to keep to themselves when necessary.
❝ I’d ask what brings you to my neck of the woods, but the more interesting question is how you got here? ❞ He would have had to correctly time the flight, considering how he looked during the night.
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