artfulequivocator:

    Tutti. Fucking. Frutti.

    He’s never going to be able to chew Bubbaloo again.

    With the nickname stuck firmly in the forefront of his mind as he enters Connolly’s
    office, it’s a wonder that he doesn’t introduce himself as such. But he doesn’t, and
    ‘Tommy Douglas’ enters that office with a grin on his face, and a story falling easily
    from his lips. You can’t con an honest man, every basic grifter knows that, and the
    man sat before him is probably one of the most dishonest bastards that he’s ever
    had the displeasure of meeting.

    It’s going to be a piece of cake to screw him over.

                                                            — — — — — — — —

    The next day has him sat outside the Starbucks just down the street from Connolly
    Computing, a cigarette resting between his fingers as he reads through the
    business proposal that he’d chalked up when he’d first gotten word that Connolly
    needed taking down a peg or two.

    It looks professional, in a manilla envelope, so that anyone walking past would just
    think of him as corporate wanker.

    It’s such a nice day out, that he doesn’t have to worry too much about hurrying with
    his cigarette along, making him quite content to sip idly at his coffee as he makes
    sure everything is ready to be set in stone.

    Michael’s in a rare mood.
    For once, he hasn’t sent his PA off to grab his
    lunch and coffee with a wave of his hand.
    For once, he hasn’t snapped
    at the nearest intern for no apparent reason.

    And for once, Connolly hasn’t pissed him off.

    Why’s that, you may ask?

              Because Connolly didn’t show up for work
              and is off being the whiny douche he is.

                                     At home.
                                     Away from Michael.
                                     Life was grand. 

     He takes a long sip from his coffee, peering over
     the frames of his reading glasses at the latest 
     issue of Forbes. Some article about some guy
     named David Karp. Tum…blr?
                              —-The fuck?
                              He looks like he hasn’t even 
                              reached puberty, if you wanted
                              Michael’s opinion.

     A clear of the throat and quick shift in his chair
     leads to those brown eyes to look just past
     the top of his magazine, to graze the top of a
     very familiar blond head. Michael pauses.

     Ah. Tutti Frutti.

     He’s standing, he’s setting his magazine aside
     and tossing his half emptied coffee cup into the nearest
     bin. He’s slipping his blazer on, trading his reading glasses
     for his sunglasses, and he’s sauntering out the door.

    ’ Smoking. Nasty habit. ’