tampered | Log: Ongoing

Log: Ongoing

When; Jan. 22 (afternoon)
Rating; PG
Characters; George Blake

not_alaska, Nicholas Brocklehurst

razrsharp
Summary; He promised he wouldn't let her tear down what he had built.
Log;

Logan's place was easy to find. Nicholas had been there countless times for their morning workout rituals, with or without the nightcrawler. But today he came in navy blue suit and matte black shoes, to pick up George Blake, former agent, the only other person in the City who knew their secrets. Secrets that were damned important to keep. He wanted to see her too. The redheaded agent had been one of the few people in Washington with whom he connected instantly. Maybe it was the nature of their work, maybe it was her sharp intellect and the acknowledgment that the men and women who kept the system running always had to get their hands dirty.

Brocklehurst still wore his ring for the occasion, a single platinum band. He led George towards Café Juliet which resembled a particularly popular chain of American coffee places. Perhaps the sight of it would be a comfort.

"My treat, George," he smiled.

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It was somewhat surreal, being in a completely modern city with the equivalent of a Starbucks in front of her, and yet passing a pair of people dressed like samurai. Even her dreams weren't this strange. But George adapted quickly - it had been what brought her so high in the FBI. High enough to get messed up in this business.

She could guess what this lunch date was about, but she was going to let Nicholas bring it up. What she didn't know was what that band was doing on his ring finger, but she could make a few gueses. It was a reassurance that he was here, in any case, because if he could get by in this place she certainly could. And if he could dress like that, he was more than getting by.

"Thanks. Somehow I doubt they take American bills here." Smiling right back at him, George stepped forward and pulled the door open, holding it for him to go in first.

"They take these," he reached into his pocket for one of the smaller denominations of color that constituted money in this realm. Nicholas nodded his thanks to George for her gesture.

"The exchange rate is similar to the US dollar," the Englishman explained, countering her door-opening with his chair-pulling, like a gentleman. "And they take cash, credit, or check," he smiled, pocketing the coin again. Nicholas used a credstick himself.

Most non-American money was multi-coloured now to provide enhanced security features, so the idea wasn't that strange. She didn't have that much cash on her, but she'd have to get it changed over soon. She didn't like the idea of living off of a complete stranger's charity for much longer, as gruffly kind as Logan was.

Accepting the proffered seat, George took off her overcoat and hooked it over the back of her chair. Gentlemen were so very hard to find these days. It was much warmer in the cafe than outside and the continual background chatter made it an enjoyable place to sit. It was a good choice, and a safe one.

"What kind of food do they serve?"

Public, broad daylight, what ulterior motive could he possibly have beyond a chat? He wasn't wearing a wire either, if George even suspected it of Nicholas. Blue eyes glanced over his shoulder briefly, signaling one of the waiters to stop by.

"Nothing you won't find at Ground Zero," he smiled, referring to the Pentagon's plaza café.

It was strange to be able to talk about these things with someone besides Christopher. There weren't many others in the City who knew the ins and outs of Washington as well as they did. That aside, George had a menu of bagels, sandwiches, and salads from which to choose. Brocklehurst ordered a coffee and a sandwich himself.

Hungry from not having eaten breakfast, George quickly glanced through the menu and picked out a soup and sandwich as well as the unavoidable coffee.

"Some days I think all the terrorists have to do to bring Washington to a grinding halt would be to blockade coffee imports. No one functions properly without it," she joked, feeling the effects of caffeine withdrawal herself.

"Don't forget the manufacturing of SUVs," he quipped, settling opposite of George. "Did Logan tell you about this place," asked Nicholas, blue eyes glancing to George briefly before his gaze averted to the window. A January afternoon still proved too cold for anyone to be sitting on the patio. He wasn't searching for spooks or anything of the sort though.

"Anything else you should know, or would like to know?" Brocklehurst leaned back as the coffee arrived.

As the beloved drink was set before her, George spared a smile for the waitress before wrapping her cold hands around the mug eagerly. It was enough just to have the warmth and smell of it for now, one reassurance that she wasn't too far from home.

"Not really," she replied, smiling a little wryly. Neither she nor Logan had seemed particularly motivated to keep conversation going, though she was interested to learn more about him. If he had a blue-furred best friend he couldn't be all as normal as he seemed.

Well, it wasn't as though she was going to ask the obvious, they both knew that. She couldn't help but wonder how much he was playing her, but there wasn't much she could do about it. "Logan and Kurt - what do you know about them?"

Most people would probably consider it rude to ask, but she could only assume Nicholas was as used as she was to knowing things about people before even meeting them.

He could have sworn he caught sight of a singing gunslinger bounty hunter out the corner of his eye, but just as quickly as he suspected Valentine was sneaking his suspicion faded in favor of answering George's question.

"Similar world, similar politics, different issues. They're a genetic minority," Nicholas nodded, explaining as much as he felt was his place to. Logan was a friend after all. Blue eyes glanced sideways again, briefly, then he returned his full attention to the woman. He didn't want to play her, but she already knew who else was in the City.

"There's no explanation as to how this place... collects people," he made a face over the word. It had morbid connotations.

The Special Agent couldn't help but follow Nicholas' gaze as he kept sneaking looks out the front windows. It was unnerving not to know what to look out for. She had just decided to stop mentally cataloging the strange things passing her by every moment and try to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

"Well, is there any reason to assume it's not some random scientific phenomenon?"

She reassured herself that if there was anything to worry about with her new housemates he would have told her. Probably. His grief in Styles' apartment that night had been real, but it hadn't stopped his professionalism in dealing with the afters.

"Aside from the presence of magic?" He asked George with a tilt of his head. Nicholas had no reason to share with her his concern... yet. Were Faye Valentine not really outside he would come off as a paranoiac. Well, at this point in time he sort of was, no thanks to Styles.

"It sounds like a terrible dose of hallucinogens, I know. I felt the same way, since July," the Englishman nodded, "after a while you adapt to it. There are people here who think our 'world' is strange."

George Blake had no reason, after all, to be paranoid about anything at all. She wasn't the one with secrets to hide.

"I can imagine," she sighed, her plate and bowl appearing in front of her. It was just the kind of wholesome cooking that she really needed in the midst of all this strangeness and she put down her mug of coffee, considerably dented, in order to dig into the sandwich.

"You'd think there'd be some kind of jet lag, moving from one world to another," she said after swallowing her first mouthful. She had never really been one for politeness when it came to things like eating.

He took a sip of his coffee, black and aromatic, Nicholas definitely needed it today.

"I think the shock of being transported completely serves the same purpose," he remarked with a nod. After a moment of thought, he asked, "what year is it for you." An important question, to help gauge past events that were deeply relevant to all three, though he had lost touch with George Blake only a month after Tyrgyzstan.

She could definitely attest to that. Bombarded with all the strange sights and new environment, it had both exhausted her and kept her from sleeping. She had eventually fallen asleep in most of her clothes with her gun beside her, but a good hot shower and this meal was doing a lot to bring her back around.

"January 2007," George replied promptly, knowing what he was getting at. "About a month after you left." She watched carefully for his reaction.

"I can't say this place doesn't discriminate against time either. January 2008," he replied to her reply. The implications of the timing alone were immense, and Nicholas had yet to share Christopher's time, but it wasn't his information to share in the first place.

"January 2008," she repeated, pausing in her motions towards the soup. She had been expecting something surprising, but jumping a whole year? "How does that work?"

"When you have the bloody answer let me know," he smiled while taking a bite out of his sandwich.

Nicholas wasn't necessarily a gentleman with the way he ate, not when they weren't at a social function, but he was careful about his gestures so as not to stain a sleeve or spread crumbs. It was only because of the suit. Jeans and a t-shirt were a different story.

"I know you've reacquainted yourself with Styles." No title, no rank, they didn't really have those here.

Blake allowed herself a laugh before digging back into her lunch. It was already looking pretty decimated - she had a lot of appetite for someone so skinny.

George had mastered quick and dirty eating skills at numerous training camps and the FBI cafeteria. If you didn't take what was put in front of you, someone else would, but if you ended up looking a mess afterwards you'd get even more flak. She was told it was bad for her, but it was a hard habit to break.

She noticed the lack of formality, but also the lack of first names. A habit on his part? "I hear he has become a lawyer," she replied casually, quite sure that Nicholas knew about their first caustic encounter.

Brocklehurst had the same habits due to his time in the army. Same principles, different venue.

Addressing Christopher as 'Styles' was a habit he had picked up from the brunette himself. He didn't like being referred to as 'Christopher' from unpermitted parties, and it was just a hunch on Nicholas' part that "Ms. Blake" was one of those individuals. Even now Christopher addressed him as 'Brocklehurst' in most situations, 'Nicholas' at particular moments.

"Yes, he's running an office in the City, taking on defense and prosecution cases," nodded the Englishman.

"And you, what are you doing with all your time?"

George knew that most of her instant dislike of Christopher Styles had come from his upbringing and she knew the rest of her dislike rested firmly on his actions. But that hadn't meant she'd wanted him dead, especially when she'd realized that the reason why he had been killed was that he hadn't been the real cause behind the war. For that, she could forgive him a little. But that didn't mean she had to like him.

"I manage the Palace," he said with a certain amount of pride, though he wasn't about to disclose that he was, for all intents and purposes, Counsellor of External Affairs to Rosiel. Even the inorganic angel knew, Nicholas served only whom and what he needed to to get the job done. These days he wasn't completely sure what that 'job' was other than making good for himself without compromising all his principles. Ends, not means.

He took another sip of coffee then a halfway mark bite into his sandwich.

"Some things don't change," admitted Brocklehurst, "but we're able to make due." It was a general we, and easily interpreted as 'Christopher and I'. "You've got your wits and gun about you, I think you'll be all right. Maybe you'll be the first to figure a way out of this, George," he smiled.

Making a mental note to stop by, George finished off her soup and gave a smile back. "A big job, is it?"

She had been feeling a bit of a mid-life crisis lately, but hadn't known what to do about it. Now she had a chance to remake her life, possibly with people other than colleagues and a life other than paperwork in it. But that was more like a New Year's Resolution than a real hope.

"I wouldn't expect any less of you," she replied, leaving the "you" open as well. She had no reason to pursue a vengeance against Styles here, especially when she didn't even know if he was pursuing any illegal activities. Death was the big absolution, after all.

Or so they say. Even Nicholas wasn't entirely sure how Christopher dealt with his own death, and he was the one to restore the former undersecretary back to life. That was a story he didn't think George would believe, at least the method behind it (the why was easily assumed). Brocklehurst tilted his head briefly.

"A bit, almost like the Embassy," he smiled. Of course, helping to run the Embassy alongside Mark and Phil hadn't been his real job in Washington... Even in the City, Nicholas maintained a covert nature about his true occupation. "Visit when you can, after you've got bearings," nodded the Englishman, "it's one of the safer places in the City. You've crossed the Anacostia when you find yourself in the Underground."

Even a native Londoner like himself had become familiarized with the geography of Washington, D.C.

"So you're still not master of your own domain? Or do you prefer it that way?"

It wasn't an insult - they had both been second-in-commands, probably for similar reasons: it was the balance between power and red tape. Actually, now that she thought about it, so had been Mr Styles. Fate moved in strange ways.

Smiling at the reference to home, she replied: "I've heard there are monsters down there, but I stepped in and it just looked like any other red light district."

"I do that well enough in my own home," he quipped with a brief but sharp gleam in his eye. Fortunately Styles wouldn't hear that remark.

"There are, but in this City they're more likely to resemble you and me," Nicholas grinned. The citizens here were peculiar like that; vampires, magicians, and shinigami alike with human faces. They all seemed to share the same habit of dressing distinctly though. He finished the last bit of his sandwich then sipped his coffee again.

"If you're in need of any help, this is my number," Nicholas scribbled the digits down on a napkin. "Our phones work here, thank christ."

A chuckle and a little nod of acknowledgment. So they were living together; she had thought so. From the way people talked about them, they were a pretty well-known pair.

A half-smile twisted her lips. "So I hear." But you got used to not trusting people's appearances. It was just the acceptance part that was more difficult.

"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind." George plucked out a pen from the inside pocket of her jacket and scribbled down her own. "A bit of a quirk, don't you think? Most people here probably don't have them, so why bother?"

It was hard to keep their secrecy in a place where politics and agencies were not the norm. The closest the City had gotten to any semblance of Washington was the election for Warden, and that resembled the race for Governor of California best. It was ironic in any case, that those of their world should be valued primarily for shrewd intellect and skill despite fragile mortality.

He took the exchange of numbers and pocketed hers. "It's a godsend," Nicholas laughed. They both knew how important cellphones were to their former occupations, and one could argue their lives. "Shall I walk you back to Logan's or are you planning to explore your surroundings?

George tucked the phone number in her inside pocket with all her other valuables. Everything she had arrived at the City with was presently on her, where it had no chance of being lost.

The food was easily finished off, her plate, bowl, and cup cleared and empty. She motioned for the receipt before remembering that the former British agent had offered to pay. She couldn't remember the last time someone had paid for her meal, and that was a bit saddening in itself.

"I'm planning on taking a walk around, get my bearings. But thanks for the offer."

Not only had he offered to pay, he didn't think George had the right currency to compensate her half of the check either. What was a few polychromatics between friends? He set the proper amount on the tray for the waitress then looked to the redhead once more. "My pleasure, George," Nicholas nodded as he rose to his feet. He extended his hand to her for a shake. "It's good to see you again," said Brocklehurst, civil, polite, and honest.

[ooc: Canon icon ;-;]

Standing in response, George clasped his hand in a firm grip and shook. She appreciated the time and effort he was spending on her and hoped she could repay him some time soon.

"Thank you, I'm glad we got to meet again too."

[ooc: augh, my brain is going downhill... stupid cold...]

[ooc: Onoes sick D: Well that sounds like a good closing point to me, does it to you?]

Of courses. ♥ Thank you for the welcome-back log~

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Log: Ongoing

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ooc