bakerstreet | Dirty laundry

Dirty laundry

the LAUNDROMAT

Perhaps you live in a dorm or an apartment that hasn't seen renovations since the eighties. Maybe your luck has really dried up and your washing machine at home broke the night before a job interview and you haven't done a load of laundry in two weeks. Whatever your story is you've ended up at the local 24-hour laundromat. It could be creeping in on midnight or three in the morning. Either way, the place is a dead zone. Leaving you floating in a liminal space where reality has been stripped down to the sounds of clattering quarters and the continuous thrum of the machines under the buzz of neon lights. This would be a horrible time to bump into someone you know, or worse - a complete stranger while you're staring into the middle distance in nothing but your American flag boxers reading a paperback.

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Frankie froze for a moment, staring down at the container. The smell coming out of it was unlike anything he could remember--though granted, that wasn't saying a whole lot, given he couldn't remember much from before the coven. Still, the scent was enthralling, and Frankie wanted to stick his whole face in the container and just breathe it in--but he restrained himself, and managed to stick just to taking a single cookie and smelling it carefully, his eyes sliding shut and a small smile--a real smile--tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He took the time he wanted just smelling it, then, since it was too small to do anything else, he popped the cookie in his mouth whole. He chewed slowly, savoring it, and after he finally swallowed, he sighed, smiling.

"Thank you. That was..." He shook his head a little. "Your husband makes a really good cookie."

Joe had eaten one himself in the meantime, watching Frankie's reaction as he set back into folding the shirts, picking up where he'd left off with the chore. It was about what he'd expected it to be, making it obvious that the kid hadn't often had treats.

He smiled again, more easily than before, at the response, "He does. He enjoys cooking for people, it's, ah, what do they call it now? It's his love language." The smile was all the warmer, shaking his head just a little, "And I've never met anyone with a bigger heart."

Frankie liked the way the man looked when he talked about his husband, though it made something in his chest tighten in a way he didn't like. He took a deep breath.

"How long have you been married?"

"Officially? Only a few years now, but we've been together almost as long as I can remember." There was an undeniable fondness in his tone, because that was the thing about Joe, all of his emotions were right there on his sleeve, despite attempts in recent years to keep them better in check.

More than that, the statement was absolutely true, they'd been married more than once throughout the centuries, but had always been together even despite having been on opposite sides when they first met.

"That's nice," Frankie said. He stared down at his hands in his lap and stretched his fingers out wide, then folded them into fists. He was jealous. He wanted that. But it was impossible in his current situation.

He sighed and looked up again. "What's your name, anyway? If you're comfortable sharing it."

"Joe, it's Joe." A soft huff of amusement, "And before you ask, yes, I do at least try to make friends with strangers at the laundromat at this hour. Or at the very least I do my best to avoid making enemies of them."

And there was the smile again, taping a stack of shirts together the same way he'd done with the towels, "Most of the time I even manage it."

Frankie laughed a little at that. "So when you said you were a regular Joe you weren't actually speaking colloquially." He shook his head a little, then stuck out a hand. "I'm Frankie. Nice to meet you. Sorry for dumping all my shit on you unasked for."

"Not entirely, no." He replied, that smile back in place. He accepted the hand, clasping Frankie's wrist instead, just briefly, a so-called Spartan handshake, "It's good to meet you as well, Frankie."

He tilted his head, not quite a negation of the apology, but something more than acceptance, "Don't worry about it, you're not the first. I just have one of those faces, I guess."

The washing machine with Frankie's clothes buzzed, and he hopped off the table to go tend to it, opening it up and inspecting his clothes for any remaining blood stains. The peroxide soak seemed to have done its job, and Frankie sighed a little in relief that he wouldn't be punished for ruining another set of clothing, even if it was in service to the coven.

He popped everything into a dryer and got it going, then turned back to Joe. "So what do you do? Other than huge stacks of laundry in the middle of the night."

"Retired military." He tilted his head from side to side, "And freelance journalism now. Nothing regular, but it's enough to pay the bills when a job does come up." It wasn't exactly a lie, either. They did sell articles sometimes, but mostly it was all off the radar sorts of jobs.

But even with what Frankie had already admitted, Joe wasn't about to say anything about being part of a small mercenary team, even if that's really what it was.

Frankie let out a soft huh and wandered back over to the table, this time sitting in a chair next to it so he could talk. He sprawled, throwing his legs up over the arm of the chair and getting as comfortable as someone could in a plastic laundromat chair.

"You know, retired military doesn't really surprise me. You've got the... what do you call it. The bearing." He crossed one leg over the other and considered Joe for a moment. He wouldn't have been surprised to find out Joe wasn't telling him the whole truth--there was something off about him that Frankie couldn't quite put his finger on. It was a feeling, like an itch in his brain he couldn't quite scratch. But it wasn't any of his business, and probably the less he knew the better.

"Have you lived around here long?"

He shook his head, "No, actually, only a couple of months now," which was longer than they tended to stay in any one place, but they needed to stick around until they actually cracked this one, and it wasn't unheard of for them to settle in even for as much as a year, "just long enough to know where to do the laundry and what markets are open after dark if we need an emergency ice cream run."

A small smile, "And if you think I've got the bearing, you should see my husband, sister and I working on a task together, even if it's just setting the table for dinner. We're a unit now, unto ourselves."

Frankie smiled wistfully, and looked away, his gaze losing focus. "That must be nice, to have people like that." All he had was himself. No friends, no family, just a group of people who owned him and told him what to do.

Most of the time, he was able to keep from thinking about it too hard. But right then, he felt the loneliness like an ache, like a hole in his chest.

He made a thoughtful noise at that, but nodded, because Frankie wasn't wrong. Granted, recent losses complicated things, but having Nicky and Nile was only a good thing.

"This is... it's probably another question I shouldn't be asking, and if it's something you can't answer, that's fine, you just have to tell me." He considered, expression serious as he continued, "Are you the only one that your," the briefest hesitation before settling on, "handlers have control of?"

Frankie's gaze immediately snapped from the middle distance to focus on Joe's face, scrutinizing him intently.

"What a very interesting question for someone with only a passing curiosity in a stranger's life to have." He sat up, putting his feet back on the floor. "And it creates a problem for me. Because, you see," he stood up and walked around to the other side of the table from Joe, so that when he leaned on it, he could still be looking at Joe head on, "I don't give single solitary fuck about them and what they may or may not want me to tell anyone. Honestly? I'd be happy to tell you anything you want to know, provided I haven't been previously ordered not to divulge it. However, all they have to do is ask me the right question and I'm telling them all about you and everything I told you in turn. Now, I'm too valuable to them for them to punish too badly, so whatever happens to me, I know I can handle it. But you'd have their attention. And that's not a good thing to have. So, before I answer your question, you need to answer mine."

He stood up again, back straight, hands on the table, gaze deadly serious and unblinking. "How badly do you want to know? Are you prepared to risk the consequences getting answers from me could bring?"

"Journalist." He replied, giving a little tilt of his head, "Can't help it."

The rest of what Frankie had to say, however, had Joe going still in turn, one brow lifting a little, setting down the shirt he'd been in the process of folding. It was a warning, and a concern, that clearly bore some weight, and he wasn't going to just disregard that.

He was, however, prevented from answering right away by his phone buzzing in the laundry basket, and he glanced down at it, "Ah, and that's the husband. Always seems to know when I'm about to get myself neck deep in something. Hang on." The text exchange was a quick one and Joe set the phone down again, nodding once, "Yes, the information is worth the risk."

Even if this wasn't the group they were looking for, it was definitely the kind of thing they should be looking into, and since they were in the area, there was no reason not to try and get two birds with one stone.

Frankie stayed silent and motionless as Joe checked his phone, then, at his answer, a smile spread onto his face. "Oh, you are interesting. Alright, I'll answer your questions." He crossed his arms, and his posture relaxed a little. He'd given his warning, anything that happened now would probably involve him but it wouldn't be his fault.

"I don't know about anyone else magically bound by..." his mouth worked a bit when his statement couldn't naturally avoid the name of the group who owned him. He'd been forbidden from saying it, and from divulging particular aspects of the group, but he sure as hell would talk as much as he could when he could. "By them. That doesn't mean they don't exist, but I have never been told about any, and I've never interacted with any. I am, however, extremely certain that I'm the only one of my kind."

He studied Frankie as he spoke, just absorbing the information, sparse as it was. If the organization was big enough -and the marks Frankie bore really could indicate a small close-knit group or something more sprawling and bureaucratic- it was entirely possible that there were others in his situation that he didn't know about, keeping them away from each other would keep them from banding together, it would prevent an uprising.

He made a quiet sound in the back of his throat, clearly thinking something over, but what he asked was: "Will I regret asking how you know that for certain?"

Frankie smiled a bit, then shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know you well enough to be able to say. What I can say is... what I am is unique. They worked a very long time to figure out how to make me happen, and the price of their actions was... extremely high." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "More than that, what makes me what I am means that I'd be able to feel if there was another like me out there. And I don't. So there isn't."

That was an incredibly familiar fact as well, and once again Joe had to consider that their family wasn't the only group of immortals out there, that there were other groups like their own.

He was still reasonably sure that even with as big as the world was, they would have run across each other, and he was reasonably sure they never had run into the same people after more than a regular lifetime.

But instead of letting that show on his face, he just nodded, "I see. I imagine it makes things easier, knowing you're the only one of your kind." His brow creased a little, "I'd imagine it's lonely, too."

Frankie tilted his head. "Considering what it took to make me what I am, I'm pretty glad I'm the only one. I wouldn't wish it on anyone else." He sighed a bit, and shrugged again. "But yeah. It's lonely. They don't want me spending time with anyone, even them."

Joe's fingers twitched, just briefly, because that definitely struck a nerve as well, considering everything Merrick and the doctor had spouted off about their plans for keeping himself and Nicky under control.

He nodded at the actual answer, however, "Part of why talking to me could be dangerous. I see." He tilted his head, almost a shrug as he resumed folding the shirt he'd set aside, "I'm hardly going to be the one to tell you not to, though."

Frankie smiled a little and leaned on the table again. "I do appreciate the opportunity." His smile faded. "Though there's a good chance that if they find out about all this, they'll send me after you."

He tilted his head, considering Joe for a moment. "I have serious doubts about how honest you're being with me--I'm not mad about that, it's smart. I don't want to know anything more about your life, in case they do send me after you. But I am starting to wonder if maybe you'd be a little more capable of holding me off than the other poor SOBs they tell me to kill."

"Maybe." He replied, "But I also don't know what you're capable of, so I can't say for sure." He shrugged, "I am better at handling myself in a crisis than most random guys off the street, though. Depending on the crisis."

A small smile, "But let's hope neither of us has to find out the outcome of that altercation, hm?"

Frankie shrugged. "Yeah. I guess we can hope. Or try, anyway." He tilted his head the other way. "Kind of gave up on that a while ago. But I'll give it a shot," he said, and smiled a little.

Dirty laundry

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