Sick Pride (Silas Mortimer)

[Michael Smith]

Bringing a cup of below standard tea to his lips, his dark eyes passed over everyone in the pub that he'd found himself in. He didn't like it, much preferring to visit an office or a house to a pub, but he didn't complain. Maybe he could target this place soon or offer the owners the chance to get some money off of the insurance. Everybody had their price, after all. Even Michael had a price, though he was rather more expensive than most people, he expected.

What he was doing in a pub in New York should probably be explained.

Three days before, Michael had been contacted by a man in New York. He didn't know the man, though he sounded so very ordinary. So very boring. Regardless, Michael had done what he usually did and, after his questions were answered, had agreed to meet with the man. The man had offered to pay for his travel and suggested they meet in the pub, and so they had arranged for it all to happen and Michael had flown to New York. After a day of getting used to the area, finding out whatever he needed to about the man, and finding out where the pub was, Michael had gone to the arranged meeting place and was now waiting with the sub-standard tea.

Looking to his left, he noticed the window he was sat next to. A smile settled on his lips before he sat up and began straightening his clothes, his hands pulling at the lapels of his black suit jacket as his lips curved into a smirk. His gaze was on his faded reflection as he smoothed out the lapels carefully. One hand dropped while the other moved to ensure his dark hair was still slicked back perfectly.

"Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Stayin' Alive. Stayin' Alive."

Michael stopped his preening to put a hand into his jacket pocket and pull out his phone. Seeing the number of the man, Michael rolled his eyes. Ordinary person with an ordinary life and an ordinary reason to not have turned up. Boring.

"Yes?" Michael answered, his voice rather calm as he waited for whatever excuse this man would come up with. It was lucky the ticket back to Gotham had already been paid for, really.

"I can't get there. Aborting everything."

"Very well. If you ever waste my time again, though, then I will find you and I will skin you and leave the little pig out for the wolves." He told the other man with a dangerously calm tone before hanging up and putting his phone back into his pocket without waiting for a reply. He brought the cup of tea to his lips once more to drink as his gaze turned to the people in the pub. Ordinary people with ordinary lives and ordinary reasons to be here... At least, that was what Michael assumed... None of them looked particularly extraordinary, after all...

[Silas Mortimer]

Rage flashed through his vivid blue eyes as he stalked down the street, his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets. He tore his hands out and came out with the package of cigarettes. He fumbled with the lighter as he lit the cigarette and sticking it into his mouth, taking a great intake of breath and blowing out the smoke, letting it linger in his path and walking right through it as if it wasn't there.

A growl slid through his clenched teeth as he stalked down Main Street, his eyebrows drawn into a v and a scowl painting his features. He wasn't angry at someone, he was only angry at himself. He'd failed his mission. He'd never out right failed before and knowing he had caused all the anger he'd ever felt to crash down on him.

He ran a hand through his hair huffing out a cross breath. He could still hear the screams echoing through the building as it caved in, flames licking the dark wood as smoke spun into the sky. He could still hear his own cries, launching forward, his partner's strong hands grabbing his arms and yanking him back and they watched as the building burned down, reducing the girl, who would have been given the chance to be a SHIELD agent, to ashes.

Secret Agent Silas Mortimer turned into the familiar doorway, the rancid burning stench of cigar smoke wafting up his nose. But Silas was used to the smell by now, whoever smoked was. That didn't mean he liked it...he was just unfortunately used to it. He pushed the cigarette out, throwing it to the ground and moving into the bar, stalking to the bar and plopping down, ordering a beer instantly, glaring about the dingy place, anger in his eyes.

(notes - you don't know how much i hate this post)

[Michael Smith]

The tea was brought to his lips calmly as though savouring the highly disliked taste of this poor excuse for his favourite drink. In fact, it was probably the only thing he would so much as consider drinking in this establishment. This wasn't the kind of place he usually visited and he didnt particularly trust any of the other drinks... As he was finishing his tea, someone entered the pub. A man with dirty blond hair who seemed to be angry with the world. He wasn't ordinary. He was different. Perhaps there was something Michael could get from him. Entertainment, maybe, or even a little work for a price. There was only one way to find out and Michael wasn't afraid to walk up to a complete stranger and find out.

Standing, the five foot nine man flattened the front of his buttoned up suit jacket and picked up the cup before he walked purposefully to the bar. Stopping next to the seemingly angry stranger, Michael didn't sit but waited patiently for the bartender. Once the bartender had finished giving others their orders, he turned to Michael with a nod of questioning. The Irishman's lips curved into a smile which would have looked friendly on anyone else, but the warmth that could have been held in the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. In fact, they remained quite cold, as though they simply couldn't hold friendly warmth.

"The same again, if you will." He requested, though there was a hint of demand wound into the words. He wouldn't accept anything else. That was ridiculous to so much as think. There was just a lack of trust between Michael and the drinks of this building. "If you're angry at the world, you really ought not to be drinking." He stated, not looking at the man to whom he was talking. He watched the bartender walk off with his cup, instead, and waited for another drink. His gaze remained ahead of him once the bartender had gone. The smile had turned into a smirk. "It just makes you violent, and who knows how many little princesses could get hurt."

Finally, Michael's dark gaze turned to the stranger with almost an expression of being bored. He was a little bored, he supposed. This wasn't his favourite thing, after all. His gaze passed over the other man with little interest, though he took in as much detail as he could of the blond. Jeans with a hint of a bulge in the pocket, the smell of cigarette smoke which didn't fit with the other smells in the pub, a little stain from nicotine on his fingers (meaning the bulge was probably a packet of cigarettes), angry expression, slightly ruffled hair from a hand running through it. A smoker who liked a drink and probably had a stressful job, more than likely had a habit of running his hand through his hair. Michael liked figuring these things out about someone. It always seemed to surprise people when he got it right...

"Bad day? Stressful job? You should try yoga." Michael commented, smirking again. His expression was partially teasing and partially smug as he turned his gaze back to in front of him. The bartender returned with a cup of hot tea and the smirk turned into a smile as his hand subconsciously moved to ensure his hair was still perfectly slicked back as the cup was handed over. Michael nodded with silent thanks and got the money he needed out of his black suit trousers. He paid for the tea silently, still smiling as he looked ahead of him at the dirty mirror behind the bar. His hands moved to his jacket and he pulled on the front a little, straightening it out once more out of habit. His gaze turned to the other man in the mirror, his smirk back with somewhat amusement as he watched for the reaction.

((Notes: but it's good. I hope you don't mind that I took a little freedom with describing some details. I only did what I knew (e.g. nicotine stains on the fingers of a smoker) but if you want me to change any of this then please tell. Edit: just because I like his voice... VOICE))

[Silas Mortimer]

Silas didn't glance at the other man, who actually looked quite out of place drinking tea and not something a bit stronger like most of those inside the bar were loosing themselves in. A little voice in the back of his head told him to just leave, that this was a bad idea, but Silas was too angry at himself for leaving. He knew that wasn't the best idea to be here considering he could easily get drunk and then that could cause him to either a) get kicked off the team do to the fact he was working under the effects of a hangover which no doubt would muddle his senses or b) fail another mission and do this all over again. Or it could do nothing and he could only hope that he didn't have to go in the next day.

Still the British man ignored the other man as he came to the bar with his cup. The agent really didn't care what anyone else was doing here, only about his own messed up mind that was on full radar for anything that could cheer him up. The bartender turned to Silas before he tended to Michael. The nod at the dirty blonde and Silas had requested a bottle of beer. Just one to start off with. But of course there would be more. Of course there would be. He just wanted to forget his failure. Just for a while. No doubt he'd feel like shit in the morning, but it was worth. At least it was at the moment.

Silas popped open the bottle and took a drink, savoring the cold liquid as it trickled down his throat. He put it down and swung his head almost lazily to glance at the man standing at the bar. "And why should that matter to me?" he growled out, taking another sip from the brown bottle clasped in his hand. Silas watched the smile on the smaller man's face slither into a smirk and he frowned, eyebrows meeting. "I really don't care, who gets hurt." He growled, turning himself away from the other man.

The agent felt the eyes on him. His own vivid blue eyes darting back to the other man. "Can I help you?" He demanded, the unspoken question of 'why are you still standing there' evident in his words as his eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms, leaning against the bar after taking a sip from the bottle. He huffed out a breath, glaring at the other man. The smokey ashen smell on his breath came out in the sigh and even Silas was a little disgusted by the smell that it brought, though he didn't show any signs of it disturbing him.

Silas almost choked on his beer. "Are you kidding me?" He asked with a smirk, a short cough of a laugh exiting him. "Yoga!?" He shook his head with something like disdain flashing through his vivid eyes. "No. Thank you." He turned away again. He didn't hear the man move away and his mouth set in a firm line. Why was he still there? Silas pondered on it as he took another sip from the bottle, anger still rolling through his body.

[Michael Smith]

Having ignored the questions posed to him while he'd been speaking, Michael's attention turned to the last words. He laughed a single breath out and grinned. Oh, Michael liked him. The short Irishman liked him a lot. He could be fun. More than fun, though, useful. He didn't continue the previous conversation, though stirred his tea before placing the spoon on the saucer gently and lifting the cup to his lips to sip at the light brown liquid, glad that whoever had made his tea remembered his last order. Remembering once of the reactions he got, Michael placed the cup back on the saucer and looked at the other man.

"You don't care who gets hurt, but something caused your bad mood. Maybe you'll get sacked after this, though. That's what you're thinking, isn't it? You'll get sacked." He shook his head and laughed again softly. His hand moved to his pocket as his gaze turned back to the tea. His hand came out of his pocket with his phone and he flicked it to the camera setting before holding it up to the other man. "Smile." He grinned and took the other man's picture. That should be enough... He sent the photo off to his source, as he liked to call them, and chuckled softly before putting his phone back in his pocket. He had time to wait for the information, and this guy was quite fun...

"Yoga's very useful... So's meditation. Relieves stress, you know. Or maybe you don't..." His gaze moved over the other man and he nodded to himself. "You don't. You're stressed. So obvious... No good for people like us." He shook his head and took another sip of the hot drink in front of him, barely paying attention to the other man, now, as his gaze was back on the mirror behind the bar. His hand moved to his hair again, repeating the slick-back action lightly, before the hand went to his pocket. No reply from his source and he was beginning to get impatient. It would come, though. If it didn't... Well, his source had better get out of Gotham before he went back...

((Notes: Sorry about this being so short. D: I thought I had a heap of Michael muse and it ended up being LIKE THIS. >_< uhefwkwd))

[Silas Mortimer]

When the other man didn't respond to any of his questions, Silas looked back towards his beer, taking a long sip from the bottle, putting it down onto the counter with a bit of a slam and received looks from some of the others in the bar, which he returned with a steely eyed glare. He ignored the shorter man with the slight Irish accent as he breathed out a laugh. He just wanted to other to leave him alone. Though punching him was quite an amusing thought...

The anger coursing through him doubled when the other seemed to read his thoughts. Sadly enough, that was exactly what Silas was thinking and he hated the short man for knowing. "You don't bloody know what I'm thinking," he snapped, glaring at the man, before returning to his bottle and taking another drink, draining it and ordering another. Silas didn't even look at the man when he snapped a picture of him. He really did want to punch the short little Irishman, but was refraining from doing so. He didn't want to call attention to himself though, he just wanted to lose himself in the cold liquid in the bottle before him. It was starting to work just a bit.

The British accented man rolled his eyes as the other began talking about how yoga and meditation relieved stress. "Ya got somewhere else to be?['/color]" growled Silas, sending him a glare, "Someone else to annoy?" He returned to his bottle, catching sight of the other man's reflection in the mirror, slicking back his hair again. Silas decided to just ignore him until he went away. Eventually he would go away. Right?

[Michael Smith]

The Englishman was so funny with his denial of Michael knowing what he was thinking. It was almost like a terrible Englishman, Irishman, Scotsman joke... He seemed to laugh at the snapped words, too amused by them for any other reaction. Anger. Anger usually meant annoyance. Annoyance because of him in general or because he was right? He knew he was right. He just knew it. People didn't get stressed over nothing at all and the stress didn't manifest into something worth drinking about over small things. This had been one bad day and until Michael knew more about him, the five foot eight man wouldn't do a single thing to make it any better. Why would he? He was having too much fun suggesting ways for him to stop stressing out.

"Your attitude suggests that I do and you're annoyed by it." He commented with an air of smugness about him. This was just too entertaining and while Michael didn't usually try to annoy the English (or Americans), he did have a lot of fun while doing it and thus wouldn't stop should it occur that he should begin doing so. After he'd put the phone back in his pocket, he had decided to comment about yoga and meditation. The growled out question made Michael look at him with a bored expression though there was a cold smirk perched on his features. He was fun! He was like a pet. Maybe Michael should keep him on a leash...

"You know, I don't." He stated before sipping his tea casually. "The man who was supposed to be doing business with me was too ordinary..." He continued, not caring for who this man might be and what this information could mean to him. A tune began to play once Michael had slicked his hair back and his lips pulled into a pleased smile. It looks somewhat out of place on his emotionless features, though the song that was playing also seemed out of place...

"Whether you're a brother, or whether you're a mother, you're Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive."

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled his phone back out and eyed the ID. His smile grew a little more as he read the word 'Source' and noted that it was a text. Wonderful. It would be short, sweet and to the point. He always liked those.

"Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin', we're Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive."

Opening the text with a casual ease about him, Michael's smile dropped as he saw the contents of the text. Well, it was short...

Not a lot of information. To do with S.H.I.E.L.D - protection of Earth kind of thing. Tell more when find it out.

Well, that told him next to nothing. Why did he even bother employing these people? It didn't matter. S.H.I.E.L.D... He'd heard of them before. Something to do with an agency, he believed. Well, they had agents and that was all he really needed to know. His smile came back as he realised what the bad day must have been about and he looked at the other male with the cold smile still in place gleefully. This was too good! It was like Christmas had come early!

"What happened, agent?" He asked before taking a sip of tea, his smile still firmly in place. It annoyed him ever so slightly that he didn't know the man's name, but if they did business. Oh yes. Business with a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. The wheels were turning in Michael's head and plans were beginning to form. This could be brilliance at its finest. An art. This could be an art. He could have sung if he didn't think it would be wildly inappropriate...

((Notes: I hope I haven't overstepped any lines with what Michael can know and can't know. I was thinking most things would be difficult - at best - to find...? Idk what the heck I was thinking but hope this okay. ))

[Silas Mortimer]

Did this guy have anything better to do? Obviously not. Silas thought about advising him to get a new hobby, one that didn't involve annoying him to death. He wanted to get drunk that night, putting it simply. He wanted to get drunk so that he'd forget about why he was angry and hopefully not go home alone. Honestly, there was no logic behind what Silas wanted to do, because either way he would have to face it eventually. His failure. His fists clenched at the thought and he downed another swallow from the bottle. This man was not helping any.

"Does it, Sherlock?" snarled Silas, throwing the words at the other with a look of irritation passing across his features. The agent ordered another beer, the man behind the counter doing so without question or bothering to look at Silas for longer than a fraction of a second. As soon as the chilled bottle was set before him, Silas took a swig, setting it down with a louder thud than he meant to. As if he cared.

Silas shook his head in annoyance. "Then get some other bloody person to talk to." He took another swig from the bottle, the wetness of the somewhat sweating surface smudging the blackness on his fingertips further. He shook his head to clear the mocking voices that taunted him for his failure. At the moment when the other slicked his hair back, Silas thought about honoring him with a date from the agent's fist. He wasn't really sure what stopped him from doing so.

The taller of the two didn't even cast a look towards the Irishman as he allowed his bright blue eyes to casually take in the rest of the bar, his eyes lingering upon a few of the women there, ignoring the other for a while, glad to be left alone for even that short of a time. It wasn't until the next three words that he turned towards the man beside him. His eyes narrowed.

"There is nothin' keepin' me from bloody punchin' you right now," Silas snarled, obviously angered by the fact the other knew he was an agent. How though? He didn't really care about that. Somehow he knew.

(Notes: It's great! No worries. I don't care what he knows honestly. XD It's Silas that cares.)

[Michael Smith]

The shorter man raised an eyebrow at the snarl before an amused smirk pulled at his lips. He always preferred Moriarty, honestly, but Sherlock was the main character... He glanced at the other man, his smirk growing some as he watched. Annoyed. With him? Probably. Michael wouldn't be surprised. He seemed to have a habit of annoying people regardless of whether he meant to or not. Ignoring the other man's obvious annoyance, though, Michael gave a nod in answer to the 'does it, Sherlock?'. It does. If it didn't, the Irishman thought to himself, then he wouldn't have said it. His gaze turned back to the mirror, watching the Englishman's reflection once more as he spoke again. Michael frowned.

"But they're so ordinary. You're not. You're quite fun." His lips curved into a grin. "So angry at the world but doing nothing to help yourself." He glanced at the man instead of the reflection. "Uh oh." He said simply, expecting violence and enjoying every moment there wasn't any. He was still looking at the agent when he spoke again. Michael nodded as though the agent was correct, though now would be the perfect time. Michael's perfect time to tell the angry agent what he could do... What he had the power to do. Maybe not all of it, though...

"Except that I can make you a hero... Or a villain." He replied, taking another sip of tea. He waited for merely a moment, putting the cup back down as he did so, before he spoke again, now looking at the cup. "A knight in shining armour, coming in and saving the day on his noble steed... I bet you'd like that. Save a few people, be a hero." He was smirking now, looking at the other man using the mirror. "Or maybe you'd rather watch it all go tumbling down." He added in a sing-song voice, the pitch of his voice lowering as he spoke. "Watch everyone competing for your mercy." He said before continuing with a high pitched voice. "'The agent doesn't want me dead.'" He snorted softly and shook his head, his dark gaze remaining on the other man, using his reflection to ensure visual contact with him. "I could give you so much power over others. I could make everyone forget your mistakes." He carried on talking with his tone now back to normal, smirk having returned to his lips. "Your choice."

((Notes: I laughed at 'Does it, Sherlock?' 'cause Andrew Scott is Moriarty in BBC's Sherlock. It just tickled me but yeah, I hope this is okay! ))