Chapter Text
Finally, Kaz had Jesper doing the work he enjoyed: one more-than-successful errand, plus a blurry, half-remembered dream—something about blue doe-eyes, a voice laughing about chemistry, and the feeling of warmth at his side—later, and now Jesper finds himself tucked in the alleyway.
It was quite clean for an alley; Jesper had to give his props to the Zevler District. He stood over a slumped bartender. Jesper's hand traced over the cold metal of his gun, and the barrel spun idly. He was just waiting to use it, but he’d only been able to use his fists. With a huff, Jesper leaned down to undress the man of his outer uniform and swiftly put the suit jacket on, tucking his gun pockets on the inside–the vial of cyanide in the breast pocket for convenience. While storing his weapons, the first thing he noticed was the name on the ID he pulled out: Charles. Jesper’s back immediately straightened; Charles would have an upright stance. He had no trouble carrying himself as though he belonged in that suit; the deep emerald silks glimmered against his complexion, and the jacket sat perfectly snug around his waist. It almost made up for the tight, ill-fitting grip of the pants, but he couldn’t help but think about how the color would pair with a certain head of messy auburn hair. Cold metal enveloped his back as he leaned against the venue door, slumping down to the level of his half-awake company.
Jesper didn’t entirely understand why he was so drawn to Wylan; all it took was one brief interaction for him to want to re-enroll in university and study chemistry. The boy was beautiful, obviously, with eyes like vast lakes and flushed ivory skin—but surely that wasn’t enough for Jesper to be head-over-heels like this. He considered it to be an intrigue. Jesper was amused by Wylan, who looked like he’d cry if one of his plants died, talking about poisons and how to kill with them. There seemed to be depth to the boy; too welcoming and naive for the Barrel, yet he had to be there for a reason.
“Should I go back sometime? I’ll come up with a good excuse to need chemicals.”
Charles moaned in response, staring unfocused in Jesper’s general direction.
“You’re right,” Jesper nodded, “he would definitely see right through me.”
After saying–or, rather, groaning–his piece, the dazed bartender folded in on himself. With the addition of an unconscious, barely clothed man in the alley, the Zevler district was beginning to reflect surroundings Jesper was much more familiar with. In a way, it made him feel at ease. The bustle and cycle of the barrel had transformed Jesper’s brain into a chamber of noise and movement; after acclimatizing to the cacophony of action, he didn’t quite know what to do with the quiet.
Giving the bartender’s hair a friendly tousle, Jesper bounced up into action like a light-switch, with his slouch hinging perfectly straight and his contemplative frown turning into his charming, people-pleasing grin. Even if Jesper wanted more time to prepare himself mentally, he knew the boss was waiting for him.
He made his way into the place, a lavish hotel with excessive additions: a bar, a casino, and a banquet hall, all separately wedged under spacious suites that take up more space than any of the guests truly need. Jesper felt a twinge of anxiety as he briskly walked down the expansive hallways, all of which were desolate, aside from the numerous gold-framed paintings that people only pretended to resonate with. He had no time to worry about his surroundings, though; he had to shrug the unease off as he reached the staff staircase and quickly made his way up the few flights. The echo of his footsteps traveled up at least 8 floors above.
Whatever mask of neutrality Jesper had before was slowly being replaced by a grimace as he got increasingly fed up with the show of wealth–and he’d only seen a single story at this point. The council didn’t deserve the luxury. Jesper thought about abandoning the job: sneaking up to the casino, letting the sound of card shuffling drown out the pompous chatter between the rich men, and leaving with bags of merchant money before he even had to look one of those pretentious dogs in the eye.
Jesper remembered the mission at hand; at least a merchant would be dead by the end of the night. Though he was happy about that fact, Jesper was still in the dark about the plan’s motive—he didn’t even know the target’s name. He supposed Kaz had a reason for withholding information, but that didn’t stop him from theorizing. Murdering a merchant was a risky feat; surely he did something egregious—or maybe Kaz wanted to be violently petty for once. He also saw Kaz talking to Haskell before they left this morning; perhaps it was his idea.
Although, Jesper’s favorite theory was that of being hired for merchant-on-merchant crime. And however amusing it was, Jesper didn’t like the idea of being a scapegoat for some rich guy who’s too scared to settle his own vendettas. Whatever the motive was, Jesper would have time to dwell on it once he was face-to-face with the man.
He’d been standing outside the kitchen entrance for a while now; he could hear the clamor of employees cooking—even the workers sounded full of themselves. Jesper’s senses were met with thick heat and the nutty aroma of food as he entered, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. That doesn’t mean he can’t sneak some glances at the food, though. With how focused the chefs were, squinty-eyed and slow-moving, surely it had to be good.
Boy, was he wrong. All he saw were weird, abstract dishes that resembled amorphous art pieces more than they did anything edible. With a disappointed groan, Jesper wiped the sweat off his brow and made his way to the door to the bar. He startled as a firm hand pressed his shoulder; the grip was familiar.
“Come here often?” Jesper joked in a low murmur.
Kaz’s face was unmoving and clearly unamused. Altogether, Jesper’s accumulated hours contemplating every microexpression on his boss’s face—all to no avail. He’s accepted the fact that he’ll never be enough for Kaz—countless snide comments and piercing glares from the guy had been enough to tell him that—but that didn’t mean Jesper’s desire to please ever left. Like a flame burning amidst the rain, Jesper will always fight for the approval he’ll never get.
“Purple suit. Bald. Serve him a drink and then get out as quickly as you can.” And he was off.
Jesper’s fists clenched as the sounds of an uneven gait got more and more distant; always the succinct man, Kaz. Huffing, Jesper entered the bar and felt immediate disappointment as haughty laughs and discussion filled his ears. He was glad that Kaz gave a physical description, or else he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between all these soulless bastards.
Jesper prepared for the worst as he grabbed the mixer and began to shake idly, eyeing his surroundings: the walls were a rich burgundy, adorned with gold and white trim; the deep brass of a live jazz band carried from the other side of the bar; circular tables were scattered and varying in height, and the dull, suited men sitting there aggrandized their boring business ventures and vacations. If it weren’t for the latter, Jesper might’ve actually appreciated the space.
In a sea of navy and red, finding the mark shouldn’t be this difficult. However, it’s not like Jesper’s trying particularly hard; his eyes dart around uncommittedly, like a moth jumping from light to light. The tall man forgot he was supposed to be bartending–or, at least pretending to. His vision locked onto the glint of a ruby suit pin settling in front of him, then he registered the suit it adorned: jet-black, expensive wool perfectly framing broad shoulders–however well-tailored it was, Jesper found it extremely boring. His eyes trailed up, and the man in front of him had handsome, if not old and stern, features: piercing blue eyes and sharp cheekbones–Jesper found it oddly familiar. The latter didn’t fail to note how the gaze of younger partygoers seemed to shift in this direction; either Jesper looked handsome enough for merchants, or the man surely had status. Maybe it was a bit of both.
Jesper immediately forced his cheery disposition, fidgeting with his breast pocket, “What can I do for you?” His words shot out haphazardly; Jesper could’ve sworn he accidentally spat in the man’s face.
“A Manhattan.” Stern. Soulless. Jesper internally grimaced, yet grinned like the man was a winning lottery ticket.
“Coming right up, sir,” and thus Jesper focused on making a drink so good it would have the man doing a jolly line dance in a matter of minutes. The cold metal of the mixer felt good under his hands, like home. He pulled out all the stops while mixing: tossing and pouring things in a way that seemed to bend the minds of those sitting at the bar–all except for his ever-cheery customer. Jesper was quite proud of himself. The Manhattan was heavy on the whisky because Jesper figured the man wanted something harsh, but he figured a touch more vermouth couldn’t hurt. The show never ended, Jesper grinned cockily, eyes not even giving the drink an ounce of attention. His hands worked quickly under the bar; faster than his brain, even. When Jesper glanced down, there were two things in either hand: a gorgeous Manhattan in the left, and an empty vial of cyanide in the right.
Jesper’s breath hitched, eyes widening in what he hoped appeared as pride and wonder. He set the drink down on the bar, grip still firm on the glass. After the performance he gave, his audience thankfully seemed to allow him a moment to catch his breath. Though his smile was stone, Jesper’s mind was racing: the best idea would be to dispose of the drink somehow–a clumsy spill or something of that sort–but Jesper didn’t trust the serious man to take that politely. Before he could think of another solution, the drink was being eased from his hands without him even realizing.
“Quite the showman, aren’t you?” Before the words could rush out of Jesper’s throat, the man was taking a deep swig of the poison.
Jesper pinched himself under the table; he had to think on his feet. “You know it!” His words carried a tremble similar to the racing of his heart. “Unfortunately, I need to take my leave. The name’s Charles Darnel; hire me for your weddings!” And with a wink, Jesper escaped into the loud, hot kitchen and then down the barren stairwell.
The good idea would be to see Kaz; however, he makes his way down to a particular apothecary instead.