herr_bookman | OOM: Jim

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OOM: Jim

Two weeks pass in Los Santos, and Autor finds he's settling in nicely. Buster makes a lot of messes, true, but cleaning them up doesn't take too much time. Neither does cooking for the dog, or himself. He has plenty of time to devote to his studies for premed.

Wilford is rarely home, and when he is, he's quiet, which suits Autor just fine. The man never sleeps in his own bed. He zonks out in a chair or stays awake, staring at his laptop. Autor often prepares German pancakes and bacon with coffee for breakfasts, and Wilford seems to appreciate eating that in the mornings. He eats like a horse, Autor notices, which is also just fine. For a thousand dollars a week, cooking and cleaning is easy enough.

Autor hasn't done much exploring of Los Santos, and for good reason: people dress in chicken suits and drive tanks. He panics the first time someone pulls a gun, and so keeps to the house.

But he's running out of food. He has to go shopping. He leashes Buster reluctantly and leaves the house.

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'Oh, he won't care about that.'

Jim notices the dog and grins again, looking remarkably like he's a person who loves dogs.

'Buster! C'mere, boy.'

Buster is an idiot, and comes straight over. Jim fed him for a long time, so he still counts as a good person, apparently. Jim even pats him now, scratches behind his ears, calls him a good boy...literally the most affection he's ever shown the mutt. Buster, predictably, loves it.

Autor recieves nothing from Wilford, so the boy assumes that the man's either coming home to deal with this intruder, or he's too busy. Either way, Autor gives up, and retreats inside, completely ignoring "Jack." The ex-soldier locks the front door, though he's not sure that will help, and enters the kitchen to degunk the blender.

Wow. Seriously rude. Jim pretends to play with the dog a minute more, then gets up and pulls his shirt back on. There's a pair of shades in the pocket; he puts them on too, and wanders after Autor. When he gets into the kitchen, he pulls himself up to sit on the counter, feet dangling and heels knocking on the cupboard door.

'Never thought he'd get himself a live-in one. I wouldn't even say you're his type. I was starting to think he didn't have a type, except me.'

Jack is intrigued by this set-up. Jim thinks Wilford could have found literally anyone more interesting to look after the dog than this guy.

All Jim, or Jack, or whatever he's calling himself, receives is a glower from Autor, and then the boy pretends the man doesn't exist. Autor runs water into the blender, and starts scrubbing out the remains of the fruit smoothie.

'The silent treatment? How very school playground of you.'

Jim doesn't like being ignored, but whatever. He whips his phone out too - Wilford has never given him his number, but like that would ever stop him - and sends a text of his own.

Tell the boy to stop being boring.

The implicit or I'll make my own entertainment will probably be clear. Jim hits 'send', secure in the knowledge that his number's untraceable, and hops down off the counter.

'Don't mind if I put some music on, do you? And the dog looks hungry. May I?'

Without waiting for an answer, he passes the fridge, opens the door and grabs a tub of leftover Korean food. Oops! Well, no matter, Autor. You won't need to clean it up, because Buster's right on that.

Autor sighs, closing his eyes. He receives nothing from Wilford, so he's not quite sure how to proceed--aside from shooting Jack with a gun the boy doesn't have. He selects a sharp, non-serated knife from the carving block and brandishes it at Jack. "I don't want to attack you."

'Then don't.'

He tosses this over his shoulder, walking off to find the stereo. They need some really loud beats right about now, because Jack doesn't like things quiet and the random houseboy is being boring. He starts flicking through vinyl, utterly unconcerned about a mad German kid with a knife.

Autor replaces the knife in the block and rinses off the blender. He picks up the licked-clean container of Korean food and throws that away. Then he brings out the mop and fills the bucket at the sink.

Jack finds a bit of a cheesy classic, and bops back into the kitchen with it blaring through the house.

'Oh, good thinking!' he says, hopping back up onto the counter.

'Excellent foresight.'

Because, right on cue...yep, there it is. Buster upchucks all over the floor. Jack wrinkles his nose, but looks extremely amused all the same.

'You really shouldn't feed him Korean stuff. Didn't Wil tell you?'

Autor has never heard this song. He also wrinkles his nose at the dog puke, and turns to the counter to retrieve the paper towels. Using a liberal amount of them to scrub up the majority of it, he then dunks the mop into the bucket.

Edited 2017-11-17 19:22 (UTC)

'You're very good at this. Is this your main job and you just keep him happy on the side, or do you do the cleaning as a side gig?'

Jack is a total bitch, if that weren't obvious.

'I suppose it's better you use the bedroom than the dog.'

(He's still nicer than Jim, though.)

Autor washes his hands and mops the floor, ignoring the aspersions being cast his way. He radiates patience. After rinsing out the mop and washing out the bucket, he leans against the counter and crosses his skinny arms across his chest.

Patient people are so funny. Jim enjoys poking at the cracks in people like that - as long as there's something interesting to break into, of course. He takes his shades off and tilts his head, watching Autor's face with a slight smile on his own. The song comes to an end, and silence settles back over the house. Jim doesn't seem to care, or even notice.

Wilford could just about strangle Nichola. The horrible woman insisted he stay and see something through, and now there's some stupid motherfucker in his house doing stupid motherfucker things.

When he comes in, it's not through the front door, but from the stairs in the back. And he walks in to see this scene before him. He looks at Jim, then at Autor, and throws his hands into the air.

"I fucking told you to shoot him."

"I own no gun," Autor says in English. He's still got his arms crossed over his chest, but he stands up straight when he spots his employer. "Jack is good to shoot."

'Darling.'

His grin is instant and wide, and probably addressed to Wilford as it's in English.

'There you are. Your houseboy won't even talk to me, he's so rude. Also - and I don't like to tell tales - but you should have told him not to feed the dog your leftovers.'

Wilford continues to glare at the entire damn thing.

"He fed the dog?" he asks Autor.

Sorry, Jack. Wilford trusts the house boy more than he trusts you.

Edited 2017-11-17 19:49 (UTC)

"Yes," Autor says, inclining his head. He scowls at Jack. "He tell tale. And feed dog. I clean up the vomit."

Jack looks highly affronted. Also maligned. He is Offended.

'How dare you. I played with him and everything.'

For almost a full minute! Jim flashes a grin at Autor - and it is Jim, not Jack; a far more malevolent stare, and malice behind the sharp white teeth - then lounges back on the counter, kicking his heels against the cupboard.

'If you wanted someone to look after the mutt, you know you only had to ask. What wouldn't I do for you, sweetheart?'

"Because I don't want you in my fucking house, jackass." Shouldn't it be obvious.

Wilford turns to Autor again. "Yeah, Jack is good to shoot. Next time, get a gun from the closet and blow his fucking brains out." He's a little too angry for short, easy-to-understand sentences right now. Sorry.

"You shoot him," Autor says, and the tone is more a question than a statement, though Autor doesn't mean it as one. He doesn't shudder at that grin, but his expression shutters, closing him off from the room as a whole.

'He won't shoot me.'

This in German, to Autor. Despite the fact that Wilford would, if he felt like it. Jim is unconcerned.

To Wilford, he says, 'Sherlock would have had him at ours.'

"The kid's just here to cook. I don't want to drive all the way to your place just to pick up my dog."

He kicks off his own shoes, aiming vaguely for the front door. It was a filming day today, and he hates the sort of shoes he has to wear. He also hates being choked by his own damn tie, so that comes off as well, in an angry flurry of knot-untying.

"You wanted to throw him off a cliff, remember?"

UGH. "Don't shoot him now. Next time," Wilford instructs.

He's already inside the house now. Nothing to be done for it, since Wilford doesn't want to clean up blood from the carpet.

Autor leans on the counter again, his arms still folded. He returns to ignoring Jack, but keeps an ear open just in case Wilford has some more instructions for him aside from "shoot him next time."

Autor's gaze falls on Buster, and he reaches a hand out for the dog. Buster comes trotting over, and Autor strokes his ears.

'I want to throw you off a cliff too. It doesn't mean I will.'

That would be far too easy. And Sherlock won't let him hurt the dog.

'You're a terrible host, just as your boy is. Neither of you have offered me a drink. I had to make my own. What's his name?'

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