[ When he'd come to the states, there had been no set plan for him and Jack had no true idea of what he was going to do. For a while what he "did" wasn't much of anything — besides explore and self-discover. He'd had funds to keep him afloat, enough to throw away on frivolous things and have a good time. They hadn't run out, but he'd found his way back to Brock all the same.
And now here they were. Living together and eventually working together. It was grating. No question about that. They squabbled and fussed enough like an old married couple that when a particular mission reared its matrimonial head, they were the first ones on the burning tips of wagging tongues. If he spent time on it, he would find it in himself to hate them, do something out of spite to make himself feel better — which would likely entail some form of light torture. Because the last thing he wants to pretend is that he's married.
Nevermind it's something he assumed he'd never have in the manner he truly wished. Now it's given to him under the utmost of false pretenses. He is Jack's seething rage.
But, he goes along with the scheme. It's field work; times such as these are reminiscent of being battle. This is as close to the military as he's ever going to be again, so he'll take it. The mission perimeters are simple — a cut-and-dry job that should have them in and out within 72 hours. Likely less considering the team they have. Thankfully, it's within a world Jack knows enough about that he's comfortable reinstating his royal attitude.
They're staying in Cannes, a penthouse suite, courtesy of HQ, and the story that they're celebrating a five year anniversary — renewing their vows on the beach ("It's a little silly, I know, but c'est la vie.").
Most of the day was spent sleeping as their work will begin at night: surveillance for now, action tomorrow. Unless something goes wrong. Jack feels right at home in a plush white bathrobe that's soft as a cloud hanging loosely on his body, as he moves through the suite as if he owns it. He is pure sophistication and grace as he lands rather heavily on the couch beside Brock, drinking the champagne (that room service brought up with a plate of chocolate covered fruits — comped) straight from the bottle. For a few moments he just leans against him with his eyes watching the various screens in front of them to scan for the targets. Then he sighs and takes a long (long) drink of the champagne. ]
I hope you remember your vows— [ He sniffs; it's followed by a slow pass of his tongue over his lips to collect the remaining alcohol. ] —otherwise, I'm divorcing you on the spot.
no subject
And now here they were. Living together and eventually working together. It was grating. No question about that. They squabbled and fussed enough like an old married couple that when a particular mission reared its matrimonial head, they were the first ones on the burning tips of wagging tongues. If he spent time on it, he would find it in himself to hate them, do something out of spite to make himself feel better — which would likely entail some form of light torture. Because the last thing he wants to pretend is that he's married.
Nevermind it's something he assumed he'd never have in the manner he truly wished. Now it's given to him under the utmost of false pretenses. He is Jack's seething rage.
But, he goes along with the scheme. It's field work; times such as these are reminiscent of being battle. This is as close to the military as he's ever going to be again, so he'll take it. The mission perimeters are simple — a cut-and-dry job that should have them in and out within 72 hours. Likely less considering the team they have. Thankfully, it's within a world Jack knows enough about that he's comfortable reinstating his royal attitude.
They're staying in Cannes, a penthouse suite, courtesy of HQ, and the story that they're celebrating a five year anniversary — renewing their vows on the beach ("It's a little silly, I know, but c'est la vie.").
Most of the day was spent sleeping as their work will begin at night: surveillance for now, action tomorrow. Unless something goes wrong. Jack feels right at home in a plush white bathrobe that's soft as a cloud hanging loosely on his body, as he moves through the suite as if he owns it. He is pure sophistication and grace as he lands rather heavily on the couch beside Brock, drinking the champagne (that room service brought up with a plate of chocolate covered fruits — comped) straight from the bottle. For a few moments he just leans against him with his eyes watching the various screens in front of them to scan for the targets. Then he sighs and takes a long (long) drink of the champagne. ]
I hope you remember your vows— [ He sniffs; it's followed by a slow pass of his tongue over his lips to collect the remaining alcohol. ] —otherwise, I'm divorcing you on the spot.