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Summary
Coming from Copley's mouth, it seems like the easiest thing in the world. For him and Quynh to dress up as a rich married couple and infiltrate a fancy dinner party to collect dirt on the host? Not his usual forte, but something that should be doable and boring.
It's never doable and boring.
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Number James copley, "His racially ambiguous trophy wife," she corrects, because they are really going for the rich asshole angle here. Makes it easier to blend in. Copley nods primly, sips his fucking atrocity of a decaf coffee like the little shit he's revealing himself to be, and has the nerve to smile at Booker.
"Don't worry, it'll be an easy job."
Well. Booker has lived long enough to know that is complete bullshit. He keeps his mouth shut though, because he's currently one against two, and he's not going to get into an argument with Quynh, not when he's just starting to value his life again.
He flips Copley off - who chuckles - and slurps the caramel drizzled whipped cream off the top of his frappe, being as obnoxious as possible in doing so. They both ignore it.
"Luckily, you have three days until the party. That should give you some time."
"...Time?"
"Yes, you'll need to look the part."
Oh, fuck no.
Copley is going to yell at them tomorrow, Quynh is going to grin and dare him to tell her anything about it, and Booker is going to sit there and enjoy it, enjoy the tiny space in the world he's fallen into against all odds.
Undercover married, currently on hiatus from vengeance quynh -
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