Strangers are Old Friends (James)

In the recedes of shadows cast upon half of the bar by the overhanging awning there sat a man all clad in black. His suit was pristine with corners and edges like a razor. The greys were blacks and the blacks were jet blacks in the shade and just so by the remarkable condition of the suit. Where other man had grimy greasy unfitted two pieces, this fellow had a clear sign of luxury. His class, and cleanliness, made the Ultra-Luxe look like the Ultra-Lack There Of. In these shadows there sat the man, the mystery, James Jonathan.

James turned his head up as another man walked in. He thought on him for a moment but shook his head in forgetting the fact of maybe knowing him. The man had a familiar face and they may have had crossed paths once or twice, but James wasn't as social as he once was. He was almost fifty years old. A social life for him was just about as realistic as it were for a Deathclaw. He wasn't Dukov, after all. Regardless, the man seemed to strike a memory in James but it stayed foggy.

It was pretty rare that James would actually be here. When he was with the Legion, and this was his post, he pretty much had the Continental Suite reserved and at all his meals at the Casino. But since he'd frayed from his oath and had allied himself with the Brotherhood of Steel he'd had his hands quite full. That was another thing that bugged him. The mark that stole from his ambiguity. His shades, which rested comfortably on the bridge of his nose, were marked with the insignia of the BoS in the upper right hand corner of the right lens. And then, to top it all off, he had another insignia on the pocket of his suit jacket. He supposed it figured it, being a Senior Paladin and all, would require work and he'd have to stay proud. But the two emblems just kind of threw off his game.

The man to his right spoke. James checked to his left, but the next person down was far out of Cato's range of tone so James let it be that he was being spoken to. "It's always a long night." He spoke, trying to avoid answering anything too directly. When he was Legion he had to avoid a lot too, but he was just a Frumentari then, and even so he didn't hold that much weight along with the Legion. Now that he was a powerful figure in the Brotherhood of Steel he had to watch out one hell of a lot, considering the recent actions of the NCR.

He didn't want to speak too much. The more he did, the more likely it was he'd be caught; he wasn't about to take the chance that this guy wasn't affiliated with the New California Republic. Gettin' sloppy meant gettin' dead. He knew he had to though. To satiate the inquisitive man's lust for a response, if anything. He didn't want the man getting suspicious. "Yeah, long nights aren't as few and far between as I'd like them to be." He spoke, his words twisting around in the air like the tendrils of smoke his lungs were akin to.

His voice was dark and low. He wasn't surprised he'd been mistaken for the voice on the other end of the New Vegas Radio quite a few times. He and James sounded damn similar. With a heavy sigh he leaned back in his stool, just enough that it wouldn't fall out, or break, from under him. He plucked up his bottle of scotch, his poison, and pressed it to his lips like he would a woman. Considering his relationship with the bottle it wouldn't be all that much of a shocker. He tipped his head back and let the honey colored poison slide down his throat. An empty solace. But a solace nonetheless.

A wall of words hit James like bricks. This guy talked one hell of a lot. James just listened though. Another man may have tried to speak, if even just to turn and let out the first letter of a paragraph before the recipient of the letter could continue, but James wasn't just any man. It may have had to do with the fact that he didn't really care to say anything. Maybe he was still just transfixed on the idea that this guy was just another NCR lackey with a knack for pulling .22's. Either way, James kept quiet.

At the mention of his sound-alike, James let out a low husky chuckle. "I don't go a day without hearing it. And on this one, you aren't even the first." He spoke quietly, letting his words sink in a bit. He felt like the man was either too trusting or too good at making people think he was. Well, too good wasn't enough for James. He'd been a spy for Caesar's Legion after all. If he couldn't pick up on the slightest of mistakes then he wouldn't have lasted a week. Nobody could have beaten him in the game of lies. Not even his replacement--

James stopped his musings and shot a dark glance at Cato, without turning his head. Unless his replacement could. The sudden thought caught James off guard; no small feat. For a moment, James considered up and leaving the man. This guy could very easily know who James was though, and leaving wouldn't do him enough good. This guy could be anybody. NCR. Legion. Fuckin' Raider even. There wasn't any way to tell just yet. For now James figured it would be best to get on his, goodish side.

The man set his bottle down and turned to face the boy. Looked a good thirty, maybe in his late twenties, with a scruff that symbolized indifference. The stains on his lower lip showed that he liked to let the cigarette hang in his lips when he smoked, rather than hold onto it like some folks. Paired with the clean cut hair and the bags under his eyes it seemed pretty obvious that this guy was a lot like James used to be when he was thirtyish. Carefree and vindictive. The vindictive bit just being a longing for some blood or anything of that nature. Maybe even his own. James knew a few guys that were like that after all.

James' lips split from the middle as he opened them to speak. "And it's not stupid. I feel you. I haven't any nice home with a wife because, like you, everybody just leaves." He didn't actually have that problem, but he figured a bit of pseudo connecting wouldn't do him too much harm. "The knight'll never get his princess. Ya' dig?" For a blink he could have sounded like a Chairman with that handle at the tail of his sentence, but that was just the way he spoke. He took another swig in symbolism of the beginning of Cato's turn.

Was this guy hitting on James? Well, whatever. Some people were just nice. This wasn't the first time somebody had showered him with compliments. It seemed that in the Wastes there was still some amount of general appreciation for your common man. James' fears of danger were slowly wearing away.

Once again, he let the man speak. James figured that the more you let a guy talk the more they felt like you gave a damn. Like your words actually mattered. And they did. James actually cared, for whatever reason, about what Cato had to say. He took in his comments like they were gold. This was always something James had done. To be courteous and what not. But Cato seemed to... deserve it more. Every here and there James would let an 'mhm' or an 'I see...' slip, but for the most part he stayed silent. He stayed composed. Up until the man looked at him from over his glasses. Snake Eyes!

James played the expression off as though he were surprised. And he did so well. "Courier gets rough... Them's the brakes though." Success. He let the words slide out of existence as Cato continued. James examined the man from behind his glasses and began to pick up the similarities. Damn... He did not age well. Of course, neither did James. Corvinus hadn't given up it seemed. Did James say something about that that made him so resilient? He was still on about this girl. Good. James was damn proud of the kid's devotion. This was something James occasionally caught wind of. Love. James continued to stay silent as the old friend to his left shared with James some pearls of wisdom from James' own youth. He chuckled at hearing his words repeated, almost to the letter, so many years after they'd first been spoken. He felt like he'd been put down in a history book.

James turned in his stool, the seat rotating so he didn't have to upset his position, and faced Cato. "Listen, son. I'm pretty damned proud of your devotion. I don't even know ya', kid... But you've got some real gut sharing this with me." James could have just let it at 'aw man that really sucks bro' but he really felt for the guy. Even if he couldn't actually help the kid out specifically he could at least part with some kind words. James stood and walked over to the man. He fished about in his jacket pocket for a few seconds and pulled out a handful of caps, enough to pay for Cato's drink and James' plus a good twice as much. He placed his hand on Cato's shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. "I could be like everyone else, ya' know. I could tell you to get over it. But if you do... Then you'll be like everyone else too. And I don't want that for you." He turned, scotch bottle in hand, and began to walk out. "Catch ya' on the flip side... Snake eyes."

The door closed behind him and James was gone. He made his way to the door and outside, ignoring the man inside who offered to give him back his weapons. James looked out into the bright lights of the Strip, their radiant glow hazed by the downpour of rain. A man in James' view was in a drunken stupor and unconscious at the Tops Door's left. James set the bottle to the man's side and let out a low sigh. He stepped out under the awning, the Tops so kindly provided, and out into the downpour. He checked his pockets and found his current vice. A cigarette. He placed the thin cig to his lips and flicked his ivory, engraved lighter out of his pocket. He'd picked the thing off some dead suit back at the Fort. He lit the cigarette, resting in his lips. The glow of the tall thin flame lit up his lined face like a story book. Man, this'd been one long night.

Cato's eyes still glistened with that bright youngster's glow. Sure, he'd been through Hell, but he was still youthful. Still strong and free-willed as it seemed he wasn't so devoted to the cause as he once was. James' eyes were once bright like his. They were a radiant green. Age had taken its toll however. They were now faded and dull, hazing with his slow loss of sight. James couldn't help but smile as Cato grabbed a fistful of his coat. "I had to get out." He pulled the shades from his face to show the pale green hues beneath, looking down on Cato with their characteristic lack of worry. "I couldn't keep up there."

With a step back, James was out of the strong grip. He tossed his freshly lit cigarette to the ground and stepped on it in the shallow puddle it landed in with the heel of his dress shoe. "I know you must have suffered in my absence. I suffered in yours. And I'm sorry for that." James stepped forward, back into Cato's space, and smiled, placing his calloused hand on the younger man's shoulder once again. Almost in the same spot as before. "We've both had it rough. I'm sure of it. I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

James sighed and looked down, breaking the pair's intent gaze to eye a moth struggling to cross the thin strip of asphalt between the couple. It's wing shuddered, encumbered by drops of rainwater. A thin smile broke across James' lips as he watched it. It wasn't mutated. It was just a bug. These things were rare in the Mojave. James' gaze returned to Cato and he looked on him with a sheepish expression. James didn't really want this to happen. He liked Cato a lot, but he wasn't looking to further his relationship with the man. Well, whatever happens happens.

Slowly, things began clicking in James' head. He blinked as Cato spoke. He kept his mouth shut no matter how much he wanted to speak. It wasn't his time to speak. Cato had words to express and James wouldn't step on them like he figured he'd done all those years he'd been gone. James watched as the boy grew flustered.

Suddenly James was confronted with what seemed like a confession. And it wasn't a quiet one either. People about the couple were beginning to stare. "Hrm. Can we continue this inside? People are getting disrupted." James didn't wait for a response and stepped past Cato, the hand on his shoulder pulling him along with for the turn. James let go when he had Cato turned to face the Tops again. He stopped outside the door and sighed, watching his breath float up and to the left in the cold air. He clutched the steel handle of the door and pulled it open, stepping inside without looking back. He made his way to the elevator on the end of the gambling hall and pressed the dull grey plastic triangle until it glowed a faded orange.

After all of these years, all of the strife and torment via those pills, James lusted for them. He ached to have the thick blue capsules in his hands again. The calm, satiating feeling as it took the place of dinner that night and got him down. He needed to have just one more. What bandwagon? These were trying times and James just didn't have the goddamn will to stand up on his own two feet. A glance would be shot Cato's way every few seconds but they never caught each other's gaze. Grinding teeth. Conscious swallowing, hard swallowing. Beads of sweat began to break from James' forehead and he shifted his weight in discomfort.

The door opened. The feeling was like taking a very hot shower with clouds of steam emanating from damn near everywhere and opening the shower door to have your face meet the untouched purity of the cold air outside. The scene in the movie suddenly changing from its usual strong filament cover of red, to signify anger or some shit, to a cool light blue. The feeling of being in deep waters, just you and yourself, and then swimming up to where the pressure was lighter and the weights were not constantly holding you down. That's what that door opening was. All of that, in one. James sighed and held his sleeved wrist up to his forehead, wiping away the sweat for another minute.

He stepped inside and turned, catching Cato's expression and sighing. The door slid shut slowly, with a loud slam as the two pieces of metal collided with each other and seemed to want to continue but couldn't with the other holding the other back. Maybe that was an analogy to the pair of men standing in the elevator now. James sighed and muttered under his breath to stop digressing from his thoughts. He needed a thought cleanser. He couldn't take it anymore. He reached into his pocket and clutched the pasty white container that held his savior.

He turned the thing around in his hand a few times, almost stroking the side a few times in faux affection. "Corvinus." His fingers played with the cap, tugging on it only as much as to pull, not to make the signature clicking sound the bottle was used to. "I need you to tell me what you think you're doing." James' fingers encroached the bottle and he formed a strong fist over its shape. Veins were protruding from the back of his hand and all up his right arm as he fought the urge to down the little blue pills. "I'm an old soul... I don't want to play any games with you, son. But I need to know just what the hell you think you're doing." He let out a low sigh. "Please..."

The doors opened a second time. The scene was unfamiliar to James. It was his floor, yeah, but not his usual. Being in the BoS he didn't have warrant to claim his old suite. He was only in for a couple of days. This hallway was much like the others but it just seemed a bit... Lonelier. Darker. Sadder. James sighed again, this time almost inaudibly, and put his arm out to stop the door from closing, offering for Cato to exit, looking on him with penetrating eyes of inquisition.

Well. That was unexpected. James could admit; he had been subject to plenty of impulses. Plenty of urges had overcome him in the past. But Cato's actions just made James even more confused as to just what in the actual fuck he was doing.

James didn't kiss back. He wasn't resisting at first, but he wasn't engaging either. He had to think if this was really anything he wanted. His lips spread to speak, but quickly realized that was an ill choice. James could only push Cato away before the tongue was introduced. James' hands rested on Cato's shoulders in a firm grasp. He held tight, locking his elbows and keeping Cato a good distance away. "Hold on there sailor!" James let his hands fall, but he was backed all the way up against the wall. "What are you doing, Ace? I'm not the er... romantic type."

James sighed and turned, running a cool hand through his hair, getting caught in a few coarse spots where kinks had formed from sleeping wrong the night before. After a few steps, escaping to an area a little less... congested, James turned to face Cato again. "Snake eyes... What are you doing? You forget about yer' gal? Tidbit, friend, I 'aint she."