[ There's no inflection to his voice — hadn't been, even when he'd asked her a question. He keeps his elbows braced against the tabletop, wrists crossed over each other. There are two mugs of coffee on the table, but he hasn't bothered with his. (He never seems to, in all the times they've met, all the favors he's called in.) ]
[ She doesn't say it like a no — he doesn't say it he means it. Not in the way that people usually mean it, anyway; it's not that she won't get in trouble, not that she isn't expendable when it comes to what the Underwoods need. It's that they'll take care of it, if it becomes a problem. (One way or another.)
He doesn't know how to be any more reassuring than that. The only concession: ] I know it's a big favor — I can take care of anything else that comes up. I just need an answer.
[ Nevermind that that's part of her job. An exhale, and she finally looks at him in the eyes, blinks once before scribbling something down. It's one word, and Addison closes her notebook after. ]
Yeah, okay. I got it. [ It's not the end of the conversation, though. Curie has a lot of people she doesn't like, but people on the Hill aren't bad people to know. ] Do I even want to ask what this guy did to you?
[ The collective 'you'. It's too big for any personal vendetta. ]
[ He looks away for the first time when she says okay. Her question gets a huff of laughter, wry rather than amused. ]
It's a pre-emptive measure. Somebody threatens to hit you, you sucker punch them first.
[ His glasses reflect his phone screen as he taps out a message, his eyes invisible for the next few seconds. There's no use in pretending what he's asking her for is anything other than what it is, so he doesn't bother with a lie — he's never been mean (cold, maybe), but his work is, through and through. The phone disappears back into his pocket as the waitress comes back around.
Stamper shrugs, looking back across the table. Again, not a question: ] I'm buying.
[ A shrug. Maybe Curie didn't care after all, the reasons for it. (Later, when the investigation piles up, it's easier to deny. I didn't know anything. It makes sense to them.) Addison pockets the spiral notebook inside the jacket of her jacket, smiling briefly at the waitress as points at something on the menu. It's a place without prices. Addison's so used to laminated plastic menus. That's one good thing about anywhere that isn't DC. ]
A beer? Whatever's on tap. And this pasta thing.
[ Alcohol with lunch. It would have been better to go for something stronger and more expensive, but it's still lunch.
She wonders, sort of suddenly, whether this waitress knows who the man sitting at her table actually is. Later, when she walks away, Curie clears her throat. ]
You know, there's a reason eye for an eye doesn't work out so well. Everybody ends up blind. Something like that.
[ He doesn't order anything to drink besides the coffee and water he already has. (The strongest thing she's ever seen him order is a seltzer.) A salad, too — the waitress makes a joke about dieting and Stamper laughs like he actually finds it funny. It's an affectation, the sort of thing he's turned off around Curie.
She'd seen through it, anyway. ]
You really believe that?
[ There's nothing like disbelief in his tone; the question isn't meant as argument or mockery. ]
[ He's a guy in DC, and maybe part of that has to do with staying sharp, but you don't run around galas and fundraisers and drink seltzer all the time. He's an asshole in the right way to this town. Curie, she figures it's not her business. It'd be hypocritical otherwise. She's never said anything kind about it either. No off-hand mention.
He'd see through it, anyway. ]
I guess, [ she says, and it's not convincing. More like she's seen what happens when you get caught at it. How it's hard to convince anyone else that it was worth it, because that's what pain is. Isolating. Cruel.
There's a thread unravelling at the end of her jacket, and she picks at it for a little while. ]
Must be one hell of a playing field. That's what people say, right?
[ That's the thing, at the end of the day. Was it worth it? Yes, unquestionably yes, but it's hard to imagine that anybody else would stand in his shoes and say the same. (Maybe she would, but she never asks and he never tells.) It's difficult to explain suffering not for the sake of one's own martyrdom but for someone else's.
That's what pain is. The only pictures (two, maybe three) in his house are of his brother's children. ]
Well, they're not far off the mark.
[ He doesn't move, but his attention does, tracking her fingertips at her sleeve. ]
Not what they said it'd be on Schoolhouse Rock, anyway.
[ She laughs. It's not a huff, more a whipcrack, like the noise been startled out of her. It's loud more than cute. ]
I bet.
[ The thread at her sleeve unravels. Pulls at it too long, too fast, until she winds it tight around her finger. Taut. Curie stares at it for a moment, how quickly the end of her finger turns bloated-red. It's the same with any person, really. Any throat. Any child, too.
She tugs. The thread snaps. Curie shrugs. Their drinks come, one beer and the waitress tops up their glasses of water. ]
You don't have to do this, [ she says. ] I mean, you've already asked me to do it. You could just leave.
[ He shrugs, looking at her across the table. His expression is blank at best — callous, maybe. He's fully aware that it's not an explanation, but to be fair, she hasn't asked for one. (It saves him the trouble of lying, anyway.) ]
I haven't eaten yet.
[ By contrast, he doesn't fidget. He doesn't, anymore. It's a habit he's left behind along with the one that he doesn't discuss (my name is Doug, and I'm an alcoholic); he's as cold with himself as he is with everyone else. ]
No. [ She looks annoyed at herself, but only momentarily. A distraction, now, because Curie takes a pull from her beer, ends up picking at the label on the front of the bottle instead of pouring it into the empty glass that came with the order. ]
[ It's not (obviously, maybe, but less so among people who tell half-truths for a living) a contradiction. He has to work but he has to take care of himself to some degree — eating, sleeping, the bare minimum — and if he can combine the two, then all the better.
He doesn't drink just yet, instead running a finger along the bottom of his glass where water has begun to condense. ]
[ He'd laugh, if he were the type to. As it stands, he manages a smile, half-wry and half— pained, maybe. Like it's not something he particularly enjoys sharing, if not something he's choosing to keep turned to his vest, either. ]
I used to drink. [ A pause. The implications — at least the way he lets them hang in the air — speak for themselves. There's no emphasis on any one single word; she's smart enough to figure it out. ] I made a couple of mistakes I shouldn't have, the Underwoods saw fit to give me a second chance.
[ It's the most transparent he's been about himself since they met. ]
[ she stands upright, having previously been hunched over her laptop, palms flat on the desk. ] Dude, chill. How long did you think this was going to take?
[ Stamper remains where he is, arms crossed tightly over his chest and his mouth pulled into a thin line. So, in other words, just as relaxed and casual as he always is.
(She reminds him of Rachel. No more or less sharp but just— more angular, maybe. It gets under his skin in a way that it shouldn't.) ]
Faster than this. [ It's not a joke, though he delivers it like it ought to be. ] How much longer on the clock, then?
[ she pulls out the rolling chair behind the desk now, long legs pulled up and against as she sets back into it. one arm balances on a knee, the other takes a minute to place a bite to her thumb. her eyes move between the screen and the sight of him — her smile's crooked. ]
Pop a squat. You're making me nervous.
[ monday morning, darlene didn't expect suits to pull her by both arms into the back of a government-issued van just after leaving elliot's, but these days, the impossible doesn't cut it. it's wednesday now and what she's been asked to do is just as illegal as the warrant-less manhandling. ]
[ (They've — he's — had Darlene Alderson in custody for over forty-eight hours. The task at hand requires a hacker, and so he plucks Darlene out of the bunch. It has nothing to do with passing similarities — or so he tells himself. The rest of his options are too unpredictable, or otherwise ciphers. Frank doesn't employ him for unpredictable. They don't have much to hold over her head and so he doesn't try that particular tactic. Instead, he explains what's to be done, and the price they're offering for it.
Flies, honey, vinegar. However it is that saying goes.) ]
Five minutes.
[ He doesn't say anything else, instead settling into the nearest chair, pulling his glasses out of his shirt pocket as he inspects the messages that have popped up on his phone between now and then. ]
[ she's been pulling information from his phone for the past thirty minutes. the longer this takes, the more she has duplicating to her laptop back in coney. in the background of the program she's running for him, she's playing her own game. ( maybe he knows, maybe he doesn't care. )
she does it because she needs the money. it isn't a sell-out. they don't ask questions about fsociety. like her chaperone, the government probably couldn't give two shits about the downfall of evil corp. until, of course, the anarchy's in their yard.
[ It's a lie, one she'll see through as soon as she goes through the data she's pulled. He's a fixer, cleaner, every dirty word that Washington will never utter because people can't know that's how politics are done. Even if everyone knows he works for Frank Underwood, if things ever come crashing down, Underwood will never take any of the blame. (That's what he means when he says failsafe, just as much as he means that he's the last and best option Underwood will ever have.)
He glances up, then, over the frames of his glasses. ]
[ he reminds her of romero for a split second, quiet, but determined to do what needs to be done. that's where the similarities end. this guy, whoever he is, he's got secrets that need surfacing. that's why she's here. another cog in the machine. who'll be knocking on her door next, wanting new questions answered about him?
somewhere in washington, there's a man who knows too much and left the encrypted trail on his laptop and now she's being left to uncover his steps. learn what he's learned. it's time, place, and circumstance. when you're like her, you own all three. ]
Do I get to know the name of my captor, or are we going straight Reservoir Dogs with this?
I'd have thought you'd have figured it out already.
[ He's not far enough below the radar for a simple search not to piece together his identity — he's had to deal with his fair share of trouble as a result — though he drops conspicuously off of the map for a period of months, some time afterward. (Francis Underwood is elected President between now and then.) Working on the Hill, no one's invisible, not in the way that fsociety are. They're just better at hiding themselves in plain sight.
A long moment passes in which he just looks at her, stretching out the silence before he says anything at all. (She looks like her. That he can't stop thinking it is a weakness.) His answer goes against his better judgment. ]
[ — stamper. born april 1st, 1964, in san francisco, california. frank underwood's bff, right-hand-man, and personal ass-wiper. ]
Doug. [ she emphasizes his name, as if punching through the singular syllable. she wanted to hear him say it. when names are spoken aloud — and they aren't using an alias — they're solidifying a sort of trust. temporary as it may be, fleeting as it may seem. ]
Well, Doug, [ she lets one leg fall, gesturing to the computer with two fingers. the screen unleashes several documents, forms, and emails that spring forth, falling into a single stack of tabs and windows. she quirks a brow. ]
[ (He understands that. When both parties know each others' names, it means — is supposed to mean — that no one can back out of the deal. It's a contract.)
Immediately, his focus sharpens. He gets up from his chair and crosses the room in a single movement, swinging around to stop behind her, peering over her shoulder and at the screen. He clicks through one, two, three screens (all that's necessary to string a congressman out to dry, never mind the other information) before letting out a sigh. The noise is barely audible, visible in the smallest shift of his shoulders. ]
Pack it all up. Mask it, make it look like an info dump, and send it to whichever intern at the Post you think deserves a full-time job.
[ her lips pucker sarcastically around the word. pushing his hand away from the mouse with a wave of her fingers, she begins clicking away, pressing keyboards shortcuts, compressing and combining the files without hesitation. this isn't his first rodeo — won't be his last. he's in the business of other people's business.
he's worth having on a leash. or, at least nearby. ]
This guy's a goddamn treasure trove. [ she speaks as she works. ] Who documents government secrets like this anymore? He might as well be using a LiveJournal.
[ She's not wrong, there — he's useful. The title of fixer isn't reserved entirely for his duty to Frank Underwood; he's in the business of other people's business and he does favors for people he knows will be useful to him in return.
Simply (he ignores her quip): ] All the better for us.
[ He moves away, rubbing a hand over his forehead. It's done. Which means he needs to get back to Washington. (More importantly, though, now there's someone new who owes him.) ]
[ her smile is all teeth, her fingers curled into her cheek as she bats her eyelashes in his direction. she doesn't hesitate to close programs, everything gone in seconds — she has everything she needs now. ]
He's some kid that tried to yoink me for some exposé piece on hackers back when I was first starting out. [ darlene waves a hand, reaching into the pocket of her jacket for a pack of cigarettes. if she's staying to chat, she might as well make herself comfortable. ]
The little douche needs his break and I could use the karmic brownie points. [ the cigarette's between her teeth as she wags her brows. igniting her lighter, she says simply: ] Win-win—
(He doesn't have to. The article is published in the next edition of the paper and there's a name attached to it. It's not karma, but the name gets filed away for a later date — you didn't think that story just fell into your lap, did you?)
He keeps moving, instead, albeit at a slower pace. There are other things to get together before they vacate the room — his jacket, a briefcase, a set of extraneous laptops. Everything has to go, nothing can trace back. The cigarette ash is a reminder he can do without — the nature of addiction, similar indulgences — but it's not as if he's about to admit to that. ]
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no subject
Sorry, I— sorry. Say that again?
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[ There's no inflection to his voice — hadn't been, even when he'd asked her a question. He keeps his elbows braced against the tabletop, wrists crossed over each other. There are two mugs of coffee on the table, but he hasn't bothered with his. (He never seems to, in all the times they've met, all the favors he's called in.) ]
We need it gone. Done.
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I could get into a lot of trouble. [ She doesn't say it like a no. ]
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Don't worry about that.
[ She doesn't say it like a no — he doesn't say it he means it. Not in the way that people usually mean it, anyway; it's not that she won't get in trouble, not that she isn't expendable when it comes to what the Underwoods need. It's that they'll take care of it, if it becomes a problem. (One way or another.)
He doesn't know how to be any more reassuring than that. The only concession: ] I know it's a big favor — I can take care of anything else that comes up. I just need an answer.
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[ Nevermind that that's part of her job. An exhale, and she finally looks at him in the eyes, blinks once before scribbling something down. It's one word, and Addison closes her notebook after. ]
Yeah, okay. I got it. [ It's not the end of the conversation, though. Curie has a lot of people she doesn't like, but people on the Hill aren't bad people to know. ] Do I even want to ask what this guy did to you?
[ The collective 'you'. It's too big for any personal vendetta. ]
no subject
It's a pre-emptive measure. Somebody threatens to hit you, you sucker punch them first.
[ His glasses reflect his phone screen as he taps out a message, his eyes invisible for the next few seconds. There's no use in pretending what he's asking her for is anything other than what it is, so he doesn't bother with a lie — he's never been mean (cold, maybe), but his work is, through and through. The phone disappears back into his pocket as the waitress comes back around.
Stamper shrugs, looking back across the table. Again, not a question: ] I'm buying.
no subject
A beer? Whatever's on tap. And this pasta thing.
[ Alcohol with lunch. It would have been better to go for something stronger and more expensive, but it's still lunch.
She wonders, sort of suddenly, whether this waitress knows who the man sitting at her table actually is. Later, when she walks away, Curie clears her throat. ]
You know, there's a reason eye for an eye doesn't work out so well. Everybody ends up blind. Something like that.
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She'd seen through it, anyway. ]
You really believe that?
[ There's nothing like disbelief in his tone; the question isn't meant as argument or mockery. ]
At least it levels the playing field.
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He'd see through it, anyway. ]
I guess, [ she says, and it's not convincing. More like she's seen what happens when you get caught at it. How it's hard to convince anyone else that it was worth it, because that's what pain is. Isolating. Cruel.
There's a thread unravelling at the end of her jacket, and she picks at it for a little while. ]
Must be one hell of a playing field. That's what people say, right?
no subject
That's what pain is. The only pictures (two, maybe three) in his house are of his brother's children. ]
Well, they're not far off the mark.
[ He doesn't move, but his attention does, tracking her fingertips at her sleeve. ]
Not what they said it'd be on Schoolhouse Rock, anyway.
no subject
I bet.
[ The thread at her sleeve unravels. Pulls at it too long, too fast, until she winds it tight around her finger. Taut. Curie stares at it for a moment, how quickly the end of her finger turns bloated-red. It's the same with any person, really. Any throat. Any child, too.
She tugs. The thread snaps. Curie shrugs. Their drinks come, one beer and the waitress tops up their glasses of water. ]
You don't have to do this, [ she says. ] I mean, you've already asked me to do it. You could just leave.
no subject
I haven't eaten yet.
[ By contrast, he doesn't fidget. He doesn't, anymore. It's a habit he's left behind along with the one that he doesn't discuss (my name is Doug, and I'm an alcoholic); he's as cold with himself as he is with everyone else. ]
Don't mind, do you?
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I don't really know what to talk about.
[ She admits. Her brows lift. ]
I thought you'd want to be expedient.
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[ It's not (obviously, maybe, but less so among people who tell half-truths for a living) a contradiction. He has to work but he has to take care of himself to some degree — eating, sleeping, the bare minimum — and if he can combine the two, then all the better.
He doesn't drink just yet, instead running a finger along the bottom of his glass where water has begun to condense. ]
What would you talk about with anyone else?
no subject
Work.
[ It's funny, in a way. There's a brief pause, and:— ]
Their seltzer habit.
[ Easy to chalk up to a character thing, but Addison knows whose pocket she lives in. It's the only way to wake up in the morning. ]
no subject
I used to drink. [ A pause. The implications — at least the way he lets them hang in the air — speak for themselves. There's no emphasis on any one single word; she's smart enough to figure it out. ] I made a couple of mistakes I shouldn't have, the Underwoods saw fit to give me a second chance.
[ It's the most transparent he's been about himself since they met. ]
It's better I stick with seltzer, now.
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[ she stands upright, having previously been hunched over her laptop, palms flat on the desk. ] Dude, chill. How long did you think this was going to take?
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(She reminds him of Rachel. No more or less sharp but just— more angular, maybe. It gets under his skin in a way that it shouldn't.) ]
Faster than this. [ It's not a joke, though he delivers it like it ought to be. ] How much longer on the clock, then?
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[ she pulls out the rolling chair behind the desk now, long legs pulled up and against as she sets back into it. one arm balances on a knee, the other takes a minute to place a bite to her thumb. her eyes move between the screen and the sight of him — her smile's crooked. ]
Pop a squat. You're making me nervous.
[ monday morning, darlene didn't expect suits to pull her by both arms into the back of a government-issued van just after leaving elliot's, but these days, the impossible doesn't cut it. it's wednesday now and what she's been asked to do is just as illegal as the warrant-less manhandling. ]
It'll be done in five.
no subject
Flies, honey, vinegar. However it is that saying goes.) ]
Five minutes.
[ He doesn't say anything else, instead settling into the nearest chair, pulling his glasses out of his shirt pocket as he inspects the messages that have popped up on his phone between now and then. ]
no subject
[ she's been pulling information from his phone for the past thirty minutes. the longer this takes, the more she has duplicating to her laptop back in coney. in the background of the program she's running for him, she's playing her own game. ( maybe he knows, maybe he doesn't care. )
she does it because she needs the money. it isn't a sell-out. they don't ask questions about fsociety. like her chaperone, the government probably couldn't give two shits about the downfall of evil corp. until, of course, the anarchy's in their yard.
she picks at her nails. ]
If I had this gig, I'd be pissed.
no subject
[ It's a lie, one she'll see through as soon as she goes through the data she's pulled. He's a fixer, cleaner, every dirty word that Washington will never utter because people can't know that's how politics are done. Even if everyone knows he works for Frank Underwood, if things ever come crashing down, Underwood will never take any of the blame. (That's what he means when he says failsafe, just as much as he means that he's the last and best option Underwood will ever have.)
He glances up, then, over the frames of his glasses. ]
Gotta find health insurance somewhere.
no subject
somewhere in washington, there's a man who knows too much and left the encrypted trail on his laptop and now she's being left to uncover his steps. learn what he's learned. it's time, place, and circumstance. when you're like her, you own all three. ]
Do I get to know the name of my captor, or are we going straight Reservoir Dogs with this?
no subject
[ He's not far enough below the radar for a simple search not to piece together his identity — he's had to deal with his fair share of trouble as a result — though he drops conspicuously off of the map for a period of months, some time afterward. (Francis Underwood is elected President between now and then.) Working on the Hill, no one's invisible, not in the way that fsociety are. They're just better at hiding themselves in plain sight.
A long moment passes in which he just looks at her, stretching out the silence before he says anything at all. (She looks like her. That he can't stop thinking it is a weakness.) His answer goes against his better judgment. ]
Doug.
no subject
Doug. [ she emphasizes his name, as if punching through the singular syllable. she wanted to hear him say it. when names are spoken aloud — and they aren't using an alias — they're solidifying a sort of trust. temporary as it may be, fleeting as it may seem. ]
Well, Doug, [ she lets one leg fall, gesturing to the computer with two fingers. the screen unleashes several documents, forms, and emails that spring forth, falling into a single stack of tabs and windows. she quirks a brow. ]
Found your white whale.
no subject
Immediately, his focus sharpens. He gets up from his chair and crosses the room in a single movement, swinging around to stop behind her, peering over her shoulder and at the screen. He clicks through one, two, three screens (all that's necessary to string a congressman out to dry, never mind the other information) before letting out a sigh. The noise is barely audible, visible in the smallest shift of his shoulders. ]
Pack it all up. Mask it, make it look like an info dump, and send it to whichever intern at the Post you think deserves a full-time job.
no subject
[ her lips pucker sarcastically around the word. pushing his hand away from the mouse with a wave of her fingers, she begins clicking away, pressing keyboards shortcuts, compressing and combining the files without hesitation. this isn't his first rodeo — won't be his last. he's in the business of other people's business.
he's worth having on a leash. or, at least nearby. ]
This guy's a goddamn treasure trove. [ she speaks as she works. ] Who documents government secrets like this anymore? He might as well be using a LiveJournal.
no subject
Simply (he ignores her quip): ] All the better for us.
[ He moves away, rubbing a hand over his forehead. It's done. Which means he needs to get back to Washington. (More importantly, though, now there's someone new who owes him.) ]
—So, who'd you send it to?
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[ her smile is all teeth, her fingers curled into her cheek as she bats her eyelashes in his direction. she doesn't hesitate to close programs, everything gone in seconds — she has everything she needs now. ]
He's some kid that tried to yoink me for some exposé piece on hackers back when I was first starting out. [ darlene waves a hand, reaching into the pocket of her jacket for a pack of cigarettes. if she's staying to chat, she might as well make herself comfortable. ]
The little douche needs his break and I could use the karmic brownie points. [ the cigarette's between her teeth as she wags her brows. igniting her lighter, she says simply: ] Win-win—
[ a finger in his direction: ] Win.
no subject
(He doesn't have to. The article is published in the next edition of the paper and there's a name attached to it. It's not karma, but the name gets filed away for a later date — you didn't think that story just fell into your lap, did you?)
He keeps moving, instead, albeit at a slower pace. There are other things to get together before they vacate the room — his jacket, a briefcase, a set of extraneous laptops. Everything has to go, nothing can trace back. The cigarette ash is a reminder he can do without — the nature of addiction, similar indulgences — but it's not as if he's about to admit to that. ]
Triple-threat. Can't complain about that.