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written-in-the-clouds · 27 days ago

Note

“how don’t you know the difference between your left and right?” with Walker please, where reader and him have a sibling dynamic (both in the Thunderbolts, I love this team so much. Now I think I understand how fans felt about the Avengers, which I wasn’t into the MCU at the time)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ john walker x fem! platonic! reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ the f word

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ wait stop because even if you fucking hate john walker this is funny shit. (2.1k words)

The mission brief was simple.

Sneak in. Secure the drive. Sneak out.

It was a three-step process, like a microwave meal or an Instagram tutorial on microwave desserts, and somehow—somehow—you were still managing to screw it up by step two.

“Left,” John growled through your comms. “Take a left at the fork.”

Naturally, you put up your fingers but then quickly decided that would get you bullied so you took a guess and ended up going right.

“...That’s your other left,” came the follow-up, clipped and already filled with the bitter disappointment of a man who knows better than to expect anything else from you.

You stopped mid-step. The hallway lights overhead were flickering dramatically—broken bulbs, unstable wiring—and in any other context, this might’ve been a suspenseful moment. Tactical. High-stakes. Because it was clear whatever danger was dangering had just been through here or was still right in that general area.

Instead, you blinked. “There’s no such thing as ‘other left.’” you scoffed and stood rolling your eyes.

“Yes there is,” John hissed. “It’s called right.” The mission had only started moments ago and he was ready to come down there and shoot you himself.

You tilted your head, hand on your hip. “That’s a label society assigned. Much like gender and sporks. Though the idea of a spork is a lot more useful than the other labels, it’s a really fun word to say too.” Before you could repeat the word spork and somehow mindlessly start walking down the trail that screamed danger John made a comment,

“God, I knew I should’ve left you in the van.”

“Joke’s on you,” you replied cheerfully. “I hotwired the van. You couldn’t leave me even if you wanted to.” There was a reason he kept you around, all of your illegal knowledge that you felt overly confident doing and sharing. In fact you would even show John Tiktoks and Reels of all the people your age putting it all over their public social media platforms. To which he was not surprised that half of the New York population happened to be these people.

A pause. A deep, deep inhale on his end.

And then, voice flat: “Turn. The hell. Around.” You sighed dramatically, like this was somehow his fault, and began rotating yourself in slow, half-conscious steps like a Sims character that couldn’t find a free tile.

And, because you knew it would drive him completely feral, you whispered into the mic: “...Which one’s left again?” You smiled at yourself turning back around and jogging out of the area he specifically kept telling you to get out of and stay out of.

You could feel the eye twitch through the comms.

“Left is the side with your watch on it,” John said, enunciating each word like you were a foreign dignitary he hated but had to be polite to. “The same watch you said made you ‘feel like a spy, but slutty.’ Remember that?”

“I do. I also stand by that.” As much as he pretended to ignore you all the time he did recall everything you said. In all fairness the watch was completely blacked out with a leather band.

“Great. So use your slutty spy watch to figure out which direction to go before I come down there and push you out a window.” John would’ve said something more violent but that would have started an actual argument.

You gasped. “You said you weren’t gonna use your military strength on me!” You continued to walk back where you had started, you also realized John was kind of a total dumbass because there was like one window and it had bars over it.

“I lied.” And with that, you finally—finally—pivoted the correct direction and continued down the left hallway like a reluctant Sims character with one trait point in Navigation and zero in Listening.

—

You met up with him two corridors later. You were lightly jogging, in fact almost skipping, and you might be wondering where this good mood was coming from. Nothing was better than a mission with just John because at the end of the day you could save your own ass you did not need him there. But messing with him, yeah, you needed that. He was already standing by the server room door, arms crossed, jaw tight, the image of Grumpy Soldier Barbie—but in your defense, he looked like that all the time.

“You’re late,” he sassed looking you up and down.

You rolled your eyes. “Relax. I was out here doing recon.”

“You got lost.” He whisper-yelled, not appreciating the very idea that you thought anything you had done was recon.

“Reconnaissance of the floor plan,” you said smoothly, brushing past him with your hand on the panel. “Maybe if your directions were better—”

“They were good directions. They were literally left. That’s it. That’s not even complicated. It’s not like I said ‘head northwest by the air shaft and look for the door with the red laser grid.’” He repeated real instructions from a previous mission he had gone on with Yelena. Instructions she also chose to ignore.

“That sounds kinda fun actually.” You had no idea what he was talking about.

“You are not allowed to speak anymore.”

He had the two of you on the move. The server room opened with a quiet click. You ducked in, he followed close behind, and for about thirty blessed seconds, things were normal. Professional. Efficient. Until you spotted the wires. John of course had you closest to the wires so that if you pulled the wrong one it would be your fuck up and not his.

“Uhhh…” you said, hands hovering over the motherboard. “Which cord do I pull?” The board was a mess, yes there was green but all of the wires were so small.

John looked up from the small device he was planting in the far corner. “Green.”

You stared at the wires even closer, there were three different greens. There were different shades of every color and all of the greens were super far apart from each other which meant that they all probably did different things.

“...Green which?” you asked, hands hovering over top of the crazy mess in front of you.

He looked over. Blinked. And then, with the slow patience of a father of four who just caught one of his kids trying to microwave foil, he moved you over, pointed directly at the correct green wire, and said—

“This green. Right here. Not seafoam. Not olive. Green.”

You nodded solemnly. “Got it.”

And then, because apparently you were put on this earth to test his willpower, you reached for the wrong one. Not slowly either you grabbed that motherfucker like you were really going to pull it up and out.

“Nope!” he barked, grabbing your wrist before you could trigger an accidental building-wide meltdown. “Do you have some kind of death wish, or are you just genetically incapable of behaving?”

“I don’t respond well to being micromanaged,” you sniffed and pouted. He gave you the look—that devastating combo of older-brother exhaustion and someone who once had dreams before you happened to him.

“You know,” he said, voice low and tight, “I’ve had missions go off the rails before. I’ve had teammates flake. I’ve had intel turn out bad. But nothing—nothing—has ever compared to trying to get you to do something simple.”

You tilted your head sweetly. “That’s just because you’re not used to working with people as unique as me.” You held his hands and swung them back and forth before getting up as he watched you in plain horror.

“Unique,” he repeated, dead-eyed. “Is that what we’re calling this now?”

You grinned. “You love me.”

“I’d trade you for a ham sandwich.” He scoffed and started walking away from you to which you got right behind him and yelled in his ear,

“A ham sandwich?” you repeated, mock-offended. “That’s so basic. At least make it like… a fancy club sandwich or something.”

He gave a long sigh, eyes skyward like he was praying for strength. “Do the job, dumbass.”

—

The escape route—because of course—was also somehow your fault. It started fine. Quiet hallway, clear egress, no hostiles in sight. The corridors were low-lit, industrial concrete with buzzing fluorescent lights overhead and peeling paint on the corners. You could hear the hum of distant generators, the faint tick of your watch, and the crunch of your boots on loose debris.

John’s plan had been tight. Simple extraction. The van was parked in an alley on the north side, GPS-tracked and synced to the route in your earpiece. Cameras had been looped, alarms temporarily frozen, and all you had to do—all you had to do—was follow him and not get distracted.

Until you stopped at the final turn and muttered, “Wait, I thought the exit was that way,” and pointed the wrong direction again.

He didn’t even look. He just kept walking. “Don’t you start.”

“No, but I really thought it was—”

“Left. I said left again. For the third time.”

“And again, I ask: my left, or yours?”

“HOW IS THAT A REAL QUESTION.”

“BECAUSE I’M WALKING BEHIND YOU. PERSPECTIVES CHANGE.”

He whipped around to face you mid-step, face flushed, hair slightly mussed, entire being radiating the energy of a babysitter who was about ten seconds from calling your mom.

“I’m going to ask you one time,” he said, slowly. “And I want you to really think about this before you answer.”

You saluted. “Aye aye, Captain America-lite.”

He visibly had to restrain himself from launching you into orbit.

“How—don’t—you know—the difference—between your left—and your right?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Thought for a second.

And then said, earnestly:

“It’s conceptual.”

John looked like he aged four years in real time.

“...Conceptual.”

“Yeah. Like, I get it in theory. But in practice? I just vibe.”

“You just vibe? This is tactical infiltration, not yoga.”

“Exactly. You gotta feel the space.”

“I swear to God,” he muttered, turning back toward the exit, “if you make me do paperwork on your death certificate I’m writing vibes as the cause of death.”

—

You made it back to the van, somehow.

Your boots hit pavement with a final, glorious crunch, and the cold night air slapped your face like a wake-up call from God Himself. The alley was still empty, shadows long and stretched under the flickering glow of a busted streetlamp that buzzed like it was shorting out on its final life. The mission had drained just enough energy from you that you were too tired to celebrate but not too tired to be smug. That perfect, post-chaos middle ground.

You both clambered into the van—the familiar creak of the door, the satisfying thunk as it shut behind you. John wordlessly dropped into the driver's seat, hands on the wheel but not starting it yet, like he needed a minute to recover from whatever the hell just happened.

There was a brief moment of quiet where you both sat there, the adrenaline fading, the mission technically complete. The drive buzzed in your pack. The radio hummed.

A random pop station played something way too upbeat for the mood. A pigeon flew overhead and nearly dive-bombed the van’s windshield for no reason except to keep you humble.

And then—

“So…” you said, angling toward him with a smug smile. “We gonna talk about the fact that despite all my ‘distractions,’ we still got out clean?”

He didn’t even look up. “Luck.”

“Skill.”

“Luck.”

You poked his bicep, still smug. “Admit it. You like having me around.”

He gave you a long, baleful stare. “You make my blood pressure rise like a balloon animal in a microwave.”

“But a fun balloon animal,” you said brightly. “Like, the dog kind.”

He closed his eyes. Whispered a quiet, resigned, “Why me.”

You beamed, settling back into your seat, feet up on the dash.

He didn’t make you move them.

And later, when you both walked into the safehouse and he saw you take the couch first, he didn’t say anything. He tossed you a water bottle. Turned on the shitty hotel TV. Sat down next to you like it was nothing.

The safehouse smelled like dusty air filters and microwave popcorn someone had definitely burned earlier in the week. The couch was too firm, the lighting was too yellow, and the remote had teeth marks in it—unclear if human. It was perfect. It was home—for now.

But when you turned the wrong direction again—again—to hand him the remote?

He just caught it mid-air, muttering, “Still your wrong left, dumbass.”

You grinned. “Still made the shot though.”

“Unfortunately.”

And that was it.

That was how John Walker—ex-Captain America, Thunderbolt, grumpy golden retriever in combat boots—ended another day stuck with you. His teammate. His human migraine.

His family.

Even if it killed him slowly.

Even if you never learned your left from your right.

Even if you made “conceptual directions” your new excuse for everything.

You, him, and the mission.

That was the job. That was the team. And, God help him, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

#note: fem reader but no mention of gender that i noticed #thunderbolts x reader #📚 — others’ writing #also this is literally me i cant tell my left and rights and it is a struggle

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written-in-the-clouds · 2 months ago

Text

“𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘.” — feat. aventurine & reader !

synopsis. in which two walk into a bar, both with something to gain, and something to lose. how it will end is a gamble, so go ahead: roll the dice.

✦ contents. both aventurine and reader are kinda morally gray in this. modern au, though it's kinda hard to tell. idk what to call this. not angst, but not not angst. ambiguous relationship between aven and reader. 4.3k words.

✦ notes. this is a little.. idk. it was an idea that got out of hand. shoutout to @rainswept for proofreading. also @pinkxpantha and @your-sleeparalysisdem0n who asked to be tagged <3

It begins like the opening of a joke: two liars walk into a bar, sit down directly across from each other, and play a game of seeing who can crack first. One liar is a mystery, the other an enigma, both holding a different set of rules behind their backs. Neither one is willing to admit defeat and take a blow to their pride, so the gambit starts.

And it goes like this:

You open with pleasantries, of the most meaningless kind. It starts with a, “How are you?” and a “It’s nice to meet you properly.” He offers you a smile, a handshake, like you’re simple business partners meeting for the first time. When you take his hand, his grip is tight, like he’s testing the strength of the bones in your fingers. You let go quickly.

“Aventurine,” He introduces himself, and pretends he doesn’t realize you know exactly who he is. It’s a power move, nothing less.

You can tell his expertise is in a different field to yours; he deals in half-truths and duplicity, rather than outward deceit. The face he wears isn’t a mask of someone else, like your own is, but rather a sculpture carved into his own, rendering his natural features unrecognisable. You could perhaps commend the effort; it is far easier to slip into someone else's skin and wear it like a costume, than it is to cut and stitch your own into something new. But you do not give him more credit than is due—that is to say, none at all.

“A nice watch you have there. I swear I’ve seen it before—where did you get it?” You ask, lazily gesturing towards the watch on his wrist. It was a gaudy thing, drawing the eye with its flashy gold and blue exterior. One-of-a-kind, it looked. And it was one-of-a-kind, as a matter of fact, but that wasn’t why you pointed it out. No, the part that caught your attention was the fact that it was on his wrist, when you knew for a fact it was on another, only a week prior.

“A gift, you could say.” Aventurine’s smile turns sharp. “Ah, but I didn’t come here to talk about watches. Shall we discuss business?”

“Go ahead,” You say, in a tone that could be mistaken for casual, but was anything but. “I’m all ears.”

“Excellent. Two glasses of wine, please.” He calls out to the bartender, the only other person in the room. She nods, not saying a word, and gets to work pouring the drinks. You let your gaze linger on her for a moment, no longer. The bar he’d chosen had a reputation of its own, as the place to meet when you wanted no ears to overhear you. It was for the most clandestine of meetings, the most hush-hush of deals. Clearly they’d trained their staff well, not to ask questions, or pay too close attention to their patrons, or even speak when their voice was not needed.

“You’re certainly a difficult person to catch.” Aventurine lounges back in the booth, laying an arm over the back of the seat. When the bartender lays their drinks down on the table, he greets her with a nod, waiting until she disappears again to continue. “Your reputation precedes you, but I can’t say your appearance matches the stories.”

“What, were you picturing some sort of monster? A fairytale beast, perhaps?” You laugh, as though it’s a joke. You both know it’s not; your reputation was something teetering on the edge of fantastical, no outsider truly knowing what parts are real, and what parts were exaggerated for your own amusement. That was the way you liked it. Once people dismissed you as the product of rumour, nothing more than an urban legend, it made it easier to get away with whatever you needed to. You were an enigma, and that was all they needed to know.

“It would have made a little more sense.” He laughs back. “What else was I supposed to believe, that the one to single-handedly trap the IPC on a wild goose chase was a mere human? You’re quite good at eluding us, I have to say. Which makes it that much more interesting that you accepted my offer.”

You shrug, swirling your glass of wine without taking a sip. It was out of character for you to not only show your face to a member of the IPC, but to do so willingly, no less. “Perhaps I was curious. It’s not every day that someone of your status deigns to contact little old me.”

“Well, the fact that you did agree to meet with me today tells me you have something to gain.” Aventurine says carefully, watching every tiny shift in your expression. “Or, perhaps, something to lose.”

The move is a calculated one, throwing a gamble out onto your ability to keep a cool facade. You refuse to let him gain even the slightest advantage, so your face remains carefully neutral, never dealing out a trace more emotion than you need. Across the table, his eyes are piercing when they meet yours.

“Everyone has something to gain and lose.” You say, in lieu of a proper retort. “I’m sure a gambler like yourself would agree, wouldn’t you?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that. I have just as much at stake in this little meeting of ours as I’m certain you do.” Aventurine pauses, a sly smile creeping over his expression. In only a second, every veil is dropped at once, and his superficial politeness is cast aside. In his next breath, he lays all his cards on the table, and the game truly begins. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? With ‘friends’ like yours, information isn’t hard to come by. I’m sure your ‘Fools’ already told you everything.”

One word, that is all it takes to make your heart stop. The suddenness of the realization makes your mask drop slightly, enough to let a flicker of surprise break through. You recover quickly, but it’s already too late. You’ve already lost the upper hand.

Your alliance—if you could even call it such—with the Masked Fools was something that was kept tightly under wraps, a secret known only to those involved. It was better that way, better that your collective operations be attributed to only one or the other. Secrecy and precision was key, and being exposed could result in a blow to both.

“So you know, then.” You shake your head slightly, placing your untouched glass onto the table, and lacing your fingers together. “What gave it away, gambler?”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, my friend. It was obvious to anyone who looked for more than a second.” Aventurine says lightly. His indifferent tone lit a spark of indignation in your chest, and you could tell he knew.

“You might be a ‘Fool’, but you’re no idiot. I’m sure you could have seen this coming.” He continues. “Besides: I have my sources.”

You scowl to yourself. There was only one with both the knowledge and motive for divulging the secret of your involvement, and you had no doubt who it was. She was always a few steps ahead, even when you were on the same side. No partnership could ever hold her back from following her whims, and that was exactly the path she chose—her own pleasure, right up until the moment she double-crossed you and left you for dead.

“That’s interesting, but your sources clearly aren’t all that sharp. I’m no ‘Fool’ myself.” You say, shifting the focus away from yourself, just slightly. The motion doesn’t go unnoticed.

Aventurine raises an eyebrow. “Charming. Your little partner wouldn’t agree, though. She seemed dead set on calling you one of her own—though, there was a trace of mischief in her eye when she said it. Perhaps I should be wary of her words.”

“If you’re trusting a ‘Fool’, then I think you’re already on the wrong path.”

“Speaking from experience, are we?” He asks.

“Aren’t we all?”

Every time you speak, you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from spilling something that would only serve as leverage against yourself. It’s infuriating, how quickly he turned the tables on you, leaving you faltering under his barrage of questioning, all hidden under a casual tone, like he was only chatting about the weather. You can’t bring yourself to back down, nor can you stand to lose the game. All you can do is make careful moves, waiting for the right moment to strike.

“How is that partner of yours?” Aventurine asks off-handedly.

“I don’t know.” You shrug, as though the words don’t make your blood run cold. “How’s your sister?”

He falters, for a moment, and you’re hit with a burst of sick pleasure at watching the anger cross his face. The glass in his hand almost shatters with the force of his grip, but he continues regardless. “The same as always. What about your debts?”

“Paid. You’re still gambling, I’m assuming?” You ask.

“Still winning.” He answers. “Are you still scamming innocents out of their hard-earned funds?”

“Only those who deserve it.”

That’s your first mistake. His eyes widen hungrily at your response; even if the knowledge isn’t news to either of you, hearing the admission directly from your lips certainly is.

“So you are a scammer, then?” He drawls. “My, my… I’m sure my superiors would be thrilled by this development. And here I was thinking I wouldn’t be able to coax a single word out of you.”

“Like you didn’t know already. And it’s not like there’s anything you can prove,” You shrug, the reminder calming you slightly. “Besides, the IPC has no stake in this anymore. You’re just an outside party, with no involvement whatsoever. There’s no need for you to come after me, you don’t stand to gain nor lose anything.”

“That would be true…” He hums, reaching into his bag and withdrawing a few pieces of paper. He slid them across the table, allowing you to glance across the contents. As you did, your heart dropped. They were receipts, records, evidence of a fraudulent payment made exactly two weeks prior. Your payment specifically, the one that was meant to cut your last tie to the IPC, shedding their power over you forever. “…If you didn’t owe us.”

In a single move, he had you in check. Your last defence was gone, crumbling down with every wall you had built up. Everything he had hinted to before—your involvement with the Masked Fools, your history—all of it was only a prelude to this; the final blow. You should have been more careful, you could have been more careful, but between your partnership falling apart, and your world spiralling, all you could focus on was getting the IPC off your back once and for all. Yet somehow, all it did was pull them closer than ever before.

Perhaps, when you got word of Aventurine’s invitation, an offer of a drink and the chance to cut a deal, you should have ignored it. But perhaps, you knew you never would have. It was simple, really; you had much to gain, and everything to lose.

“Now, don’t look so shocked.” Aventurine shook his head. “I’m sure you of all people should have known that this wouldn’t be overlooked so quickly. Someone so infamous such as yourself, with such a large debt too, the office took careful notice when looking over your repayment. It didn’t take long to trace back the money. You were smart, but you were sloppy.”

“You’re not a debt-collector though, are you?” You snap back. “Why are you here?”

“Me? For whatever reason you need me to be. Consider me your obedient servant; I am here to fulfill whatever purpose you need.” Aventurine opens his hands with a flourish, revealing an ornate poker chip in his grasp. As he spoke, he twirls it between his fingers, the movement mesmerising. “For a price, of course. I deal in opportunity, first and foremost, and with your… unique skills, I’m sure we’ll be able to strike a deal.”

“And if I have no need for you?”

“There’s always a need.” He tosses the chip to his other hand, lazily spinning it between his thumb and forefinger. “I think you’ll find I am rather skilled in making offers one can’t refuse.”

“And if I refuse anyway?”

“I think you misunderstand me,” Aventurine chuckles slightly. “See, this isn’t a meeting either of us are just walking away from. I’m under strict orders to either strike a deal, or bring you straight to the IPC’s office. Your choice, of course. But you’d be amiss to ignore this chance—the IPC is not so forgiving of people who try to swindle them. This is your last option.”

And perhaps it’s because that smug look on his face makes your temper rise, crashing over you like a tidal wave, that for a second you forget yourself. The words that follow are heated, practically burning your mouth as they tumble out before you can think to stop them. “Well, that’s certainly not what Jade told me.”

You realize your misstep a half-second before he does, but it’s already too late. In every exchange, no matter how small, there is a winner and a loser, and with a few short words you have decidedly become the latter.

“Hm? And whatever do you mean by that?” Aventurine asks, in mock curiosity. His eyes are hungry when they meet yours, as if your slip-up is exactly what he’s been craving. Of course he has, your whole conversation has been nothing more than a mirage of friendliness, a series of mind games waiting for the other party to break. But you got too comfortable, too confident, and you’d tripped, faltered, and fallen right into his hands.

You let out a hoarse laugh, fists clenching at your side. “I misspoke. And besides, I–I fail to see how that matters, when we were talking about something completely separate.”

“Oh? But I’m not the one who brought our little ‘friend’ up. Even a Freudian slip comes from somewhere, I’m sure you know.” Aventurine leans forward, the grin on his face only widening. He’s caught you: hook, line, and sinker, and he knows it. “So tell me. What in the world does Ms. Jade have to do with our situation?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” You grit out. “Can we please get back to the topic at hand?”

“No, I don’t think so. See, maybe I would be able to look past that as a slip of the tongue if you mentioned any other of my colleagues, but Ms. Jade complicates things, no?” He shakes his head slightly. “What reason would you have for speaking with her? I can only assume it’s something important, if the mere mention has gotten you all flustered like this.”

Important was one word for it. The word that she’d used though, was confidential. It would be easy to turn you in, she told you. It wouldn’t expend many resources, and it would rid them of you for good. One call, and you’d be locked away for all of your past crimes and more. The only reason she’d met you alone in the first place, was the fact that the ‘matter at hand’, as she’d called it, was far bigger than a simple debt.

“We both have something to gain here. I’m sure once you see that, you’ll make the right decision.”

“If you truly want to know, she offered me a place at the IPC. I turned it down, of course. I’m not so foolish as to accept a deal as shady as that.” You declare haughtily, as if the very idea was beneath you. For a second, Aventurine almost looks caught off guard, but he recovers in the blink of an eye.

“As a scam artist, aren’t shady deals your specialty?” He pauses, before adding: “Although, ‘artist’ might be a bit of an overestimation.”

“Call me ‘shady’ all you like, at least I don’t pretend to be altruistic. How much ‘peace’ has your corporation been dealing out these days, anyway?” You shoot back.

“About as much as your little schemes have been earning you gold.” Aventurine retorts. “Honestly, did you really think that slipped past our attention? I told you we’ve been watching you very carefully these past few months. Did Ms. Jade forget to mention that?”

“She told me everything I needed to know.” You lie. In truth, she was frustratingly vague with the details of her proposition, only alluding to a ‘problem’ the IPC had, that could supposedly use your aid. Even still, her knowledge of your situation, as it was, had much more information than you were comfortable with her, or any IPC member knowing.

“Two of us—two Stonehearts, no less—reaching out to a petty criminal, a grifter like yourself. No matter how notorious you are, you’re still a simple fraudster, yet you’ve caught quite a lot of attention. Isn’t that something?” He grins, the smile smoothing over any traces of irritation lingering at the corners of his lips. You’ve managed to make him stumble; only slightly, but it’s enough. If he wasn’t aware of your exchange with Jade, it could only mean his intentions—while no doubt aligned—weren’t exactly identical.

“That begs the question, then—” You lean forward, dropping your voice to barely above a whisper. “What exactly do you want from me, Aventurine?”

“To answer that one, we’ll have to go back a little bit. How about I recount a story for us?” Aventurine offers.

You eye him warily. “Go ahead.”

“Excellent.” He downs the rest of his glass, before setting it aside. “Let me set the scene. Picture a con artist, a well-known charlatan in their own circles, but thrillingly elusive to anyone outside of them. Our little trickster is a clever one, but they made one crucial mistake: and that was partnering with someone they shouldn’t have, and joining an organization only to be stabbed in the back immediately after.”

“Your trickster never joined them.” You hiss.

He holds his hands up in mock defeat. “My mistake. The trickster, knocked off their feet, barely escaping by the skin of their teeth, needs to lay low and recuperate. Only one issue, they already have a loan with a corporation that isn’t so lenient with those who try to evade them. Without paying it off, they’ll never be able to hide anywhere without them breathing down their neck.”

You roll your eyes. “Like you’ll be lost without my money.”

“Money is money, my friend. Those who have it, have it, and those who’ve lost it, would do anything to have it again.” Aventurine smiles knowingly. “So, the trickster gets desperate. They try to use their usual ruses, but it doesn’t work. They’re set to face the corporation’s full wrath, however… they get lucky.”

The last word, and the slight vitriol attached to it, makes you pause. “Lucky. How so?”

“It just so happens that this corporation of theirs, has their own situation to deal with, and a threat greater than losing some money. One that could benefit from the wiles of a trickster.” He pauses for a beat, something flashing in his eye, too quick for you to catch what it was. “And so they send me.”

Aventurine, the gambler with an unbroken winning streak, and the one who never leaves a meeting open-ended. It was no wonder he was chosen to confront you, the only mystery was why he wasn’t the first.

“You ask what I want from you? Exactly what I offered. I want a deal.” Aventurine says calmly. “A temporary partnership with the IPC, where you’ll be under our full protection. In return, you do exactly as we say, follow every order to the letter, and most importantly, you will keep this alliance top-secret. In return, we are willing to meet whatever demands you ask. Provided they are reasonable, of course.”

“What exactly is this ‘situation’?” You ask with narrowed eyes.

“I’m afraid that is classified. Until we reach an agreement, all you need to know is that it is a matter of most importance, and it potentially involves foul play… something you’re used to, I assume.” His words are slow, clipped and precise, like he’s treading carefully not to step on any landmines. But what really catches your attention is not what he says, but what he doesn’t. As he speaks, he holds up his hand, subtly showing off the watch you drew attention to before. It’s an action too careful to be idle, too obvious to be accidental. Whatever he can’t say, he’s willing to hint at.

The watch, it’s so recognizable it hurts. The only person to wear something so garish was someone prideful, someone whose reputation hinged on how they appeared to outsiders; a certain Stoneheart, who would never be caught dead without it.

Foul play. The watch. A deal.

The only ‘situation’ that the IPC would be willing to stick their necks out for would have to involve one of their own, one of the highest ranking, whose absence would leave them scrambling. Foul play implied some sort of crime, possibly even a betrayal, requiring an outside set of eyes to solve it. And you were the biggest clue of all: someone who wears many faces but never their own, someone who can swindle the wedding ring from an armoured guard without breaking a sweat. Someone infamous, yet unassuming at the same time.

Your eyes widen, as realization dawns on your face. Satisfied at your understanding, Aventurine lowers his hand to rest on the table.

You swallow hard, thoughts racing. If they were going to try and trap you for their own gain, then you needed to play the game to win it. It wouldn’t hurt to go along with their scheme—at least until you were on your feet again, and could do what you do best: disappear.

“I want cash. For a plane ticket, a hotel room, and enough to last me at least the next two weeks. Clean cash, too.” You blurt out, before faltering slightly. No matter what you ask for, it will all be for naught once their protection expires. The IPC was in a place not quite above the law, but not bound by it either; you needed assurance more than anything else, that the pact won’t blow up in your face by the time it ends. “And–And I want my warrant for my arrest dropped.”

Aventurine hums, mulling over your words. He takes his time, seeming to delight in the way your patience runs thin. “Cash won’t be any trouble. The warrant though, won’t be so easy. I can negotiate for a reduced sentence, but that would require you to turn yourself in once our cooperation ends.”

“Not good enough.” You say sharply. “If you’re desperate enough to reach out twice, it’s safe to assume I’m one of, if not your only options left. It’s either drop all charges—and I know the IPC have the influence to do so—or I walk out of here, and you never see me again. Your choice.”

He is quiet for a long while, studying you up and down. Not a single sliver of emotion breaks through your face, but his hard gaze does make you shiver. The game is at its end, the moment where a winner and loser will be crowned, and at this point there is no victor in sight. Still, you cling to your stratagems, and the shreds of your torn down ploys. At this point, you will take all you can get not to be the one to lose, even if it means calling a draw.

“You drive a hard bargain, trickster.” He laughs. “So let me recap. You get as much cash as you need, and your record wiped clean, and we have your undying loyalty, up until the moment we decide you are no longer needed. Is that a deal?”

There’s hesitation in your movements, but you force yourself to move anyway. You take his hand delicately, as though it is the trigger to detonate an explosion, and shake it once, then twice.

“Deal.”

Aventurine lets go, his smile widening into something almost genuine. “Thank you for your cooperation. My superiors will be thrilled with this outcome.”

You stare at him, with an expression that could only be described as disdain, pushing yourself to your feet. As you stalk towards the exit, close on his heels, your drink is left behind: still full, and completely untouched. The bartender lowers her head as you pass, silent and staring straight through you.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. And if you decide you want to extend our partnership, Ms Jade’s offer still stands, my friend.” He holds the door open for you, before exiting himself. You do not thank him for the courtesy, but you do give one last cursory nod to the bartender behind the counter. She doesn’t look back, and Aventurine closes the door. “Just say the word, and I’ll have a contract drafted. The IPC could use more associates with your… skillset.”

“Thank you for the offer, friend.” You spit back, all traces of false niceties dropped. “I’ll get back to you when Hell freezes over.”

And it ends in the same way it begins, one liar following the other out of the bar, and splitting off into their separate ways. Aventurine does not look back as he leaves, but you cannot say the same, stopping once you are at least ten feet away and sneaking one last glimpse. Even with his back turned, you can tell he is perfectly at ease; not a trace of tension in his shoulders. As if sensing your gaze, he stops as well, glancing over his shoulder.

“Do remember what I said today.” He calls out with a knowing smile. Your face hardens, but you do not answer.

You turn. You leave. You do not look back again.

#i’m not in this fandom but this is so well written i’m obsessed #📚 — others’ writing

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