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tamingthemuseTitle: Illicit Dealings
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Portmanteau
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: Oh, hey, we’re running a secret black market operation, let’s announce our comings and goings to the world.
Breathe, Cassandra. It’s not like you haven’t done this a million times before.
Man walks into the shop. Bells over the door jingle merrily, and she wonders why she ever thought hanging those there was a good idea. Oh, hey, we’re running a secret black market operation, let’s announce our comings and goings to the world.
Looks at the pastries for a while, but he keeps glancing at her. Nervous. She wonders if he’s in this willingly, or if there’s someone holding a knife to the throat of someone he cares about. Kid, maybe. Act normal act normal act normal. She could try to tip him off, no reason he has to get swept up in this, but she’s never met him before so why should she risk anything for him?
Let alone Steel. She doesn’t risk Steel for anything.
Her sleeve’s not sagging, but she pushes it up anyhow. He’s pretending to look at the apple spice bread, but he tenses visibly in recognition. Definitely being forced into this. Can’t bring herself to feel bad for him.
The guy snags two of the pumpkin bakes, and she thinks good choice almost involuntarily. Setting them down on the table where she’s kneading out dough, he says, “Cassie, right? I’ve heard good things about your stuff.”
Yeah, real subtle. “Made those fresh this morning, sure you’ll like them,” she says, with her broadest smile. Then she winces -- deflecting like that’s something she’d usually do, trying to get rid of people who aren’t serious about making a deal, but she’s not sure the woman in the pantry knows that. Can’t have her taking it out on Steel.
Luckily, the customer is undeterred. “I imagine you must turn quite a profit, to rent this high. We’re practically in the boatyards.”
“Oh, I own outright. This business can be very profitable.” Smile smile smile.
“I imagine. Do you take custom orders?”
“Of course. Tell you what, come into the back room, and you can give me a better idea of what you want.” She dusts her perfectly clean hands on her apron, nod to the couple who are browsing the breads, and leads him into her private sanctuary.
The door she closes behind them is heavy oak, carried here by the best carpenter in the city and carved in place to shut smooth as water, blocking every hint of sound. She leans her forehead against it for just a moment, imagining that she can hear Steel, feel his breath on her neck. The room feels like it’s spinning.
When she turns, the customer has placed a heavy satchel on the glass-topped table which is the sole ornament of the small room. When she commissioned it, she’d intended the clear, unornamented surface to symbolize transparency in dealings, or something. No matter now.
Looking mildly concerned by her lack of response (yes, isn’t that sweet, I’ll be fine) the customer nudges the case towards her. The room is small enough she doesn’t need to take more than a half step forward to open it and inspect the contents.
The bag is more spacious than it appeared from the outside, so much so that she simultaneously revises her mental description of it to chest and resolves to inquire as to the maker -- it’s exactly the sort of thing that comes in handy in certain parts of her line of work. Of course, that sort of thought is useless to the point of absurdity now, so she brushes it off with a mental laugh.
A leather fold in the middle of the chest divides it into two portions, each filled nearly to the brim. The left compartment is full of parchments, each closely written; she’s seen this sort of thing before, and it’s inevitably precise copied and recopied records of every transaction performed by the firm throughout the fiscal year, compiled by people too scrupulous to so much as compute the sums for their local branch. The right compartment is of course cash, in medium denominations. She runs her fingers through it, estimating, and the man across the table gets a sort of horrified look on his face, which she can’t help but be amused by. Yes, I am doing math in my head, right here in front of you, think of that. Oh, sweetheart, you are new.
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Portmanteau
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
Summary: Oh, hey, we’re running a secret black market operation, let’s announce our comings and goings to the world.
Breathe, Cassandra. It’s not like you haven’t done this a million times before.
Man walks into the shop. Bells over the door jingle merrily, and she wonders why she ever thought hanging those there was a good idea. Oh, hey, we’re running a secret black market operation, let’s announce our comings and goings to the world.
Looks at the pastries for a while, but he keeps glancing at her. Nervous. She wonders if he’s in this willingly, or if there’s someone holding a knife to the throat of someone he cares about. Kid, maybe. Act normal act normal act normal. She could try to tip him off, no reason he has to get swept up in this, but she’s never met him before so why should she risk anything for him?
Let alone Steel. She doesn’t risk Steel for anything.
Her sleeve’s not sagging, but she pushes it up anyhow. He’s pretending to look at the apple spice bread, but he tenses visibly in recognition. Definitely being forced into this. Can’t bring herself to feel bad for him.
The guy snags two of the pumpkin bakes, and she thinks good choice almost involuntarily. Setting them down on the table where she’s kneading out dough, he says, “Cassie, right? I’ve heard good things about your stuff.”
Yeah, real subtle. “Made those fresh this morning, sure you’ll like them,” she says, with her broadest smile. Then she winces -- deflecting like that’s something she’d usually do, trying to get rid of people who aren’t serious about making a deal, but she’s not sure the woman in the pantry knows that. Can’t have her taking it out on Steel.
Luckily, the customer is undeterred. “I imagine you must turn quite a profit, to rent this high. We’re practically in the boatyards.”
“Oh, I own outright. This business can be very profitable.” Smile smile smile.
“I imagine. Do you take custom orders?”
“Of course. Tell you what, come into the back room, and you can give me a better idea of what you want.” She dusts her perfectly clean hands on her apron, nod to the couple who are browsing the breads, and leads him into her private sanctuary.
The door she closes behind them is heavy oak, carried here by the best carpenter in the city and carved in place to shut smooth as water, blocking every hint of sound. She leans her forehead against it for just a moment, imagining that she can hear Steel, feel his breath on her neck. The room feels like it’s spinning.
When she turns, the customer has placed a heavy satchel on the glass-topped table which is the sole ornament of the small room. When she commissioned it, she’d intended the clear, unornamented surface to symbolize transparency in dealings, or something. No matter now.
Looking mildly concerned by her lack of response (yes, isn’t that sweet, I’ll be fine) the customer nudges the case towards her. The room is small enough she doesn’t need to take more than a half step forward to open it and inspect the contents.
The bag is more spacious than it appeared from the outside, so much so that she simultaneously revises her mental description of it to chest and resolves to inquire as to the maker -- it’s exactly the sort of thing that comes in handy in certain parts of her line of work. Of course, that sort of thought is useless to the point of absurdity now, so she brushes it off with a mental laugh.
A leather fold in the middle of the chest divides it into two portions, each filled nearly to the brim. The left compartment is full of parchments, each closely written; she’s seen this sort of thing before, and it’s inevitably precise copied and recopied records of every transaction performed by the firm throughout the fiscal year, compiled by people too scrupulous to so much as compute the sums for their local branch. The right compartment is of course cash, in medium denominations. She runs her fingers through it, estimating, and the man across the table gets a sort of horrified look on his face, which she can’t help but be amused by. Yes, I am doing math in my head, right here in front of you, think of that. Oh, sweetheart, you are new.
