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You enter your lair with a thoughtful frown. You normally arnt the sort to worry about a job, but the one tonight was going to be a bitch of a job. Infiltrating a government building, destroying the security equipment and stealing any and all files on the criminals of the city. It wasn’t about being silent and effective, the heros and police of the city had gotten far too cocky in there attitude, and according to your father ‘needed to be put in there GOD DAMNED PLACE’. Sending messages you could do, but you were worried about the second part of his instructions.
‘That henchmen of yours has been working for you for THREE FUCKING MONTHS NOW. Its high time he earned HIS MOTHERFUCKING PAYCHECK. He’s coming with you on the this job.”
“Yo TaVbRo?” You call into the big entryway as you come in, kicking your shoes off and padding your way through the door, your thick socks cushioning the sound as you take off your hat and shake the snow from it. “TaV, We GoT A JoB ToNiGhT.”
You’ve gotten comfortable. Saying otherwise would be an awful lie and one that you even want to try to make believable. You were a smart man, given a good deal, you knew how to appreciated it. Especially when submerged fuck-deep in mafia bullshit, it was good to have a rather grounded attitude toward the menial tasks that you’ve been trusted with.
Keep the lair clean, and Gamzee in both check and clean clothing, make coffee in the morning, take care of the finances, and occasionally do errands on various sliding scales of legal. For the lot you’ve drawn, your job is pretty easy. Your boss was even kind enough to give his word regarding your safety and comfort. Life is, for lack of a better word, good.
You wipe your hands dry on your pant-legs when the door opens. It’s better not to get too far involved in work when Gamzee was home, he had this habit of being just as untrustworthy on his own as an infant, and you’re not about to risk another opossum in the heating vent. You learned your lesson last time. “Hey, what’s up?”
Looking at him is like a punch to the chest. In the three months you’ve worked for the strange mobster, you’ve gotten a pretty good hold on his personality, and that look feels like he’s just about signed you up to get packed up and shipped away. Or worse.
The word ‘we’ has never felt so terrifying. “…We have a job?” All you can do is stand, hope, and pray to a god you only somewhat follow.
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