#bluedprints: control 01.

[gildedlife]

@bluedprints liked.

he hasn’t seen this man before, james realizes, as he briefly—politely—tracks his entry from the left of the room. there’s a halo cast around him, faint but unpleasant, and james isn’t sure if it’s merely a memory of the effects of his arctic journey or if his weak eye still plays such tricks with an image.

he doesn’t feel up to introductions, which he’s been lucky enough not to have to do thus far.

‘ you’re not an agent, are you? ’ he asks, meaning of insurance, with a playful tone that once came easily. now it cracks at the slightest pressure, revealing its hollowness. ‘ surely we’d have met. you must be with one of the companies? ’

[gildedlife]

he can feel that he looks panicked, for a moment. it washes over his features and then settles in his chest, straining against the backside of his ribs and causing his breathing to cut out, then back in with a huff. he’s unpracticed. he’s also tremendously interested.

to show as much before the window shuts, james presses back against control’s ankle, inviting however much contact he’s willing to give.

‘ do you know, i don’t believe it could be. you bought the drinks, after all. ’ he smiles in a way that promises more: a one-two punch sort of glint in the eye. he traces the lettering on his glass with a finger. ‘ give me an excuse not to go back to work, ’ he says. ‘ and i can spare you a hellish ride in a taxicab at lunchtime. ’

another time, under another title, control would have been the one to propose this and get away with it—field work that required unconventional thinking, an on-the-go change of plans, easily excused with just a shrug and a smile. but that was years ago. before he was promptly pulled down to earth and locked there, before it could become too much of a habit, something for his superiors to be embarrassed about.

another time, james' thumb on his upper lip would have been enough for control to forgo this altogether, leave the drinks undrunk, invite him back to that shitty hotel room right away.

for some reason, though (the lingering feeling that he's being watched, was there cameras on the intersection, the crosswalk they took to get here? is the bartender talking to someone on an invisible headpiece, or just muttering to himself?), it has him simply sit up a little in his seat, eager but not revealing. under the table, his leg slides forward, his ankle wrapping gently around james'.

"i think you should try to make me a deal," he says. "wouldn't want all of this to be a total waste, for you."

[gildedlife]

‘ the impression i’ve given is more exciting than i am, ’ he says, a little brighter in the eyes. almost as flattered as he is stunned, on behalf of his former self. he thanks control for his drink and sips from it, keeping his head low for a moment to avoid the view of daylight through the rain, and the reminder of uncharacteristic behavior that comes with it.

he then lifts his gaze but not his whole head, regarding control through half-cocked eyebrows and with a somewhat pained smile, like he wants to apologize for letting him believe this hasn’t been a unique experience.

‘ not once before now. ’ is this more embarrassing than if he could say it were a habit? ‘ i suppose it may be worth considering, in future. as far as strategies go. ’ boldly, though perhaps in keeping with their pace, james reaches forward and gently thumbs the foam from his stubble. then he sucks the thumb clean. ‘ that depends on whether i sell you a policy. ’

you already sold me on something, control thinks, following him inside the bar, where they're the only patrons at this hour save the bartender, sitting in the corner picking at a croissant. the circumstances worked me, but you closed it. he leads them to a table along an exposed-brick wall, the bartender jumping to attention as he sees them enter.

"be right back." control takes his drink order and returns a few minutes later, slides james' over to him, while settling down on a chair opposite him, a whiskey glass and a pint on his side of the table.

"are you going to get in trouble?" he asks, turning the question back at him, but that's not what he's really interested in knowing, of course, "you do this a lot? running off with prospective clients? i'm not mad at it," he takes a sip of the beer, foam in his stubble (of course he was given no time to shave in this whirlwind of a morning), "as far as strategies go." certainly intriguing.

[gildedlife]

his eyebrows jump when control touches him, just an easily-missable tic of a thing, which forces james to acknowledge that he hasn’t had nonprofessional human contact in a while. it would have rolled off him when he was at the peak of his game—or better yet, he’d have taken that touch as an invitation to escalate more confidently—yet this time it seems like a little gift, a shock of friendliness he’d have taken for granted before.

he’s glad to have one hand free, with the umbrella claimed. they walk ahead, james’ leg disagreeing with the movement in the midst of a weather change.

‘ if you can believe it, i used to be an excellent salesman. i would have been horrified to see myself squandering one. ’ the slight emphasis he places on ‘squandering’ makes plain that he views the sales, now, as the waste. he utilizes his open hand, ghosting feather-light fingertips over control’s lower back before they enter the bar. ‘ do you mind if we take a table? i’m unbalanced as a foal on the stools. ’

a hard drink in the a.m. with a would-be stranger, clean ironed shirt, business cards, in whatever bar might have its owner out of bed early enough to pull the shutters from the windows—why not? it's a new mission, now; control feeling simultaneously both closer and further away from his namesake. he can be anyone now when the automatic doors beeps behind them, announcing their exits.

he waits for james under the small coverage, patiently, while the rain tap-taps above him, the asphalt soaked a darkened grey, droplets on the tips of his dress shoes.

oh, he will be in trouble. but the subtle, malicious kind, not loud and violent: any possible request in the system on hold, his company car in the shop for an indefinite amount of time, his schedule shifted inexplicably, every hour on the dot. small annoyances, mostly, to remind him that he is under their thumb, and not the other way around. "if i was afraid, i wouldn't have followed you," he says, which isn't entirely the truth—if i wasn't at least a bit brave, i would have stayed behind.

he looks at james' face while he talks, and finds that he likes looking at it—enough to reach out to touch his arm, an excuse to stand a bit closer, as he lifts his other hand to point over his shoulder, at a café/bar down the street that looks to be opening. "let's get that drink. i don't know what was in that coffee, but i need to wake up." he takes the umbrella from him, next, holds it above the both of them. "let me."

[gildedlife]

control, he thinks, refreshed after so many years among toms and johns and edwards. even his own name is tiresome, surpassingly common in the company he keeps.

‘ oh? ’ the twinkle in his eye borders on mischievous. ‘ we can put that right, if you’re inclined to. ’

james squints at the sidewalk ahead, and then at the sky, remembering a bit too late that it’s a bit too early to be offering libations. then again, control is the one confessing to having been planning to crack his minibar before coffee and lunch.

‘ unless you’d like to eat first. or sightsee. oh—damn. stand here. ’ he guides him under an awning just as a light rain begins to mist them, then ducks into the shop beyond it to buy an umbrella. he returns to control and angles it in his favor, unbothered by the darkening shoulder of his own suit. ‘ you won’t be in trouble for leaving? i ought to have asked. ’

control follows him, imagines the weight of eyes on his back as he steps over the treshhold, something that isn't really there, cameras materializing. a juvenile thrill, he finds, in imagining distant, upper-floor anger outbursts at orders not followed—realizes this is only because he took a plane to get here, far enough away that he might not be real, someone else entirely.

he tears off his own name tag, pressing it, folded, against the fate line of his palm, "i'm control."

if it's not a reclaiming, it's a try at it, at the very least.

he smiles, tired, but genuine. "do you see any other suffering fools around here?" the hallways are eerily quiet. who checked his visitor ID? did they all leave? "i have to be honest with you, i tried the hotel minibar before coming here. it was locked, though."

[gildedlife]

‘ really, ’ he says, his smile nearer to reaching his eyes than he’s lately grown accustomed to. no matter the outcome, this is the most rewarding ‘sale’ he’s made in some time. he leads ‘JOHN’ toward the exit with refreshed vim.

he crumples and bins his name tag, then worrying it may have gone unseen during their rushed coffee, he says: ‘ it’s james, by the way. ah— james fitzjames. call me whatever you like but jim. ’

there’s a chill just beyond the threshold of the conference hall that forces him out of body for a still beat.

‘ tell me you haven’t come alone, at the least. ’ they’d be together in that, he thinks, albeit by different definitions of ‘alone.’ against his better nature, he hopes for it. ‘ to suffer we fools without, christ, moral support. ’

whatever pitch he was sent here to listen to, whatever deal he was sent here to make (the memo just said to stagnate, and ask about coverage of sudden local weather phenomena with fifteen minute intervals), control can sense it is a pitfall, a distraction, meant for him to return empty-handed and humiliated.

and in that case, nothing really needs to happen. he fidgets with the cap of the ballpoint pen again as he watches james rise. "really?"

he doesn't know this place like james does, the winding corridors and halls; just to exit the building, you need to be scanned. "well, if this is what you're selling..."

he moves to stand as well, coffee abandoned, chair scraping.

[gildedlife]

‘ leave, ’ he says, with enough thrill in his voice to make plain that this plan applies to him, too, and that he hadn’t thought himself likely to pitch it in the end. he wouldn’t have dreamed of defying his employers a few years ago. he’s excited by the idea of potentially sparing someone else their mistreatment.

‘ i’m sure i’m meant to sell you something, but i don’t intend to. do you mind? ’ it is why he’s planted here, after all. why he’d initially dreaded the sight of someone new, knowing he’d be expected to charm his way into their wallet.

‘ if you’ll take it, i am your out. ’ he rushes a last swallow of coffee and collects his cane from between his knees before standing, still unsteady after many months of practice. ‘ tell them it was part of the graft. ’

control, suspicious by now to how the game is played, has half a mind to consider it's supposed to be a waste—of his time, his money, his god damn sanity. worst of all is the lackluster acceptance of it, how easy the thought overtakes him that he must deserve it, somehow, must have done something to piss someone sitting in a far more comfortable chair off severely. if this is a punishment, it must be him that slipped up.

no cctv, but that doesn't mean he's relaxed.

he takes his coffee in smaller sips, looking james over, finding himself defending them, even: "well, it's a work expense." though he paid for the ride over out of his own pocket, has little hopes of actually getting reimbursed. he doesn't like that it feels like james knows this.

"so what else is there to do around here than wait for the instructional video to tell me to keep my arms and legs inside the ride at all times?"

[gildedlife]

‘ hm. ’ james hadn’t considered that the lack of care was apparent this far from the source; he’d supposed that one would first have to occupy the company’s ivory tower to realize they’d been punted out of it, as happened to him. the view from beneath their boot, as it turns out, is clear for all.

he thumbs delicately at the drawing and finds he’s disappointed not to be marked by ink when he lifts his hand.

‘ it isn’t you, ’ he says, meeting his gaze again. ‘ although i do think i may follow their example, now you mention it. i could stop working. ’ unbothered by the hotness, he drains near half of his coffee in one tilt. ‘ this damn thing is a waste of a morning. and your money, incidentally. ’

his chair legs scrape against the floor. elbows on the table as he stirs his coffee. turns the dark brown tawny. he looks from the spiral to james' eyes, and some of the illusion carries over. control smiles, faintly, against his cup,

"yeah, for anything to waste your entire morning."

there's a wooden pen stand on the middle of the table; control hates the way he drags it closer, almost despite himself, pulling out ballpoint pens to inspect their caps. "is it just me or does nothing here work?" his voice drops low, but he still manages to keep it light. he scribbles a tornado shape onto a napkin, the pen ink spotting and bleeding, then slides it over to james, as if to accentuate a point. "they put me in a hotel forty minutes away and didn't even get me a rental."

[gildedlife]

he takes his coffee with a word of thanks, a little color having risen to his cheeks while he watched ‘JOHN’ collect their beverages. he could have done it himself—would have, were he less exhausted by the prospect of making a decent impression these days—and feels some shame for having taken him up.

not even the pang from his ankle to his hip does much for the guilt, though that doesn’t stop him from stretching the leg unhelpfully underneath the table. penance, he thinks.

‘ for a drink that wasn't tepid? ’ he asks, indicating his cup. then, unintentionally flirtatious, he tries the other option: ‘ or for you? ’

he hasn't sat down yet, finds himself in one of those awkward in between-stages, hand clasped white on the back of the chair. he nods his head, "'course," because he did offer, and reaches over for james' cup.

there's a small coffee station by the door, paper cups, plastic pods of half and half.

he brings james' filled cup back to him, along with his own, a small handful of napkins and creamer that spreads out on the table between them. "you've been waiting long?"

[gildedlife]

james looks at his two-thirds-emptied cup and inhales through slightly pursed lips, which he then twists by way of chewing the inside of his cheek. he lifts his chin to face him and his eyes lag behind, dragging over the table and his name tag before they land.

‘ would love one, ’ he says. he finally exhales, then smiles in a way that looks more like a squint or a grimace; it’s self-mocking but unmistakably tired. ‘ if you were offering. ’

his hands are sweaty, he wipes them on the back of his slacks. the whole morning's been a nightmare so far, key cards admissions that won't work, phone inexplicably drained of of battery, your name's not in our records? and so on, but then, like at the flip of a switch, the light goes on and all is well, everything's been accounted for, and right this way, sir.

his visitor card reads JOHN, though. control wonders how many pair of eyes is really on him as he enters the room, immediately checking the ceiling corners out of habit, not feeling entirely comforted by the absence of visible cctv.

he pulls out a chair next to james. "not in the way you mean." honestly, in the grand scheme of things, he supposes what goes on at southern reach and the common insurance company wouldn't really be that far removed. "government. coffee?"