Spot Conlon doesn't do sentimental. He doesn't do feelings. He does simple pleasures and revels in it - the adrenaline of a good fight, the satisfaction of a job well done, and the thrill of stolen moments, of chemistry boiling over until you're slamming each other into walls and kissing until you can't breathe anymore, warm hands in cold alleys and stifled cries when you know there's people nearby. It was a rush, that was all, a secret excitement that was just for him and nobody else. Feelings didn't come into it.
He knew it wouldn't last, couldn't last, but why should he care about that? Someone new would come along, another body would catch his eye and that would be that. No need for emotion.
So when he practically feels his heart skip a beat at the sound of an achingly familiar signal, he puts it down to nothing more than remembered lust and almost contemplates ignoring it - only he can't. Conveniently, there's no way he can just get on with his evening without finding out what the hell the Manhattan leader is doing here, in his territory, at this time of night. He's not walked up like it's business, he's crept in all secret and used that old signal, so either he's drunk and an idiot (a distinct possibility) or it's something serious enough he doesn't want anybody else to see.
So Spot waves off anybody else going to look and heads after the whistle himself, stepping into the alley with his cane in hand (can't be too careful, even with Jack), mouth open to deliver one of his trademark cocky greetings.
The words die in his throat when he actually sees Jack, and for a second he just stares, until finally he tucks his cane into his braces and comes slowly closer.
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Worth the wait it's perfect!
Date: 2020-05-01 06:46 am (UTC)Spot Conlon doesn't do sentimental. He doesn't do feelings. He does simple pleasures and revels in it - the adrenaline of a good fight, the satisfaction of a job well done, and the thrill of stolen moments, of chemistry boiling over until you're slamming each other into walls and kissing until you can't breathe anymore, warm hands in cold alleys and stifled cries when you know there's people nearby. It was a rush, that was all, a secret excitement that was just for him and nobody else. Feelings didn't come into it.
He knew it wouldn't last, couldn't last, but why should he care about that? Someone new would come along, another body would catch his eye and that would be that. No need for emotion.
So when he practically feels his heart skip a beat at the sound of an achingly familiar signal, he puts it down to nothing more than remembered lust and almost contemplates ignoring it - only he can't. Conveniently, there's no way he can just get on with his evening without finding out what the hell the Manhattan leader is doing here, in his territory, at this time of night. He's not walked up like it's business, he's crept in all secret and used that old signal, so either he's drunk and an idiot (a distinct possibility) or it's something serious enough he doesn't want anybody else to see.
So Spot waves off anybody else going to look and heads after the whistle himself, stepping into the alley with his cane in hand (can't be too careful, even with Jack), mouth open to deliver one of his trademark cocky greetings.
The words die in his throat when he actually sees Jack, and for a second he just stares, until finally he tucks his cane into his braces and comes slowly closer.
"Geez, Jacky-boy, you look like hell."