The Great Grey

Of all the scrambling efforts to entice Rosie to stay a little longer, the outstretched hand cupping a few pennies for a whore might have been the most insulting. Hand poised on the knob, Rosie twisted back and let his pale eyes take in the proffered payment before he lifted them to Mouse's face.

"She's been paid," he said, and could not help the frustrated flutter of his eyelids. This man may have known of him, but it was clear he did not know Ambrose Wilkes at all beyond the scantest of Irish-bent reputations. "Keep your coin, Mouse. Use it to buy something to numb your prick. I reckon you'll need it before I see you next."

Tim would admit it, at least to himself: There was a petty satisfaction to seeing something break through that all-too-cool exterior. As small a victory as it was, he would take it.

"I don't want any of your charity. It was my bill to pay." But his hand dropped in spite of his continued frustration. He would simply have to see it to the Goose himself. It was for the better, anyway. At least he'd be able to apologize to Lucinda, or have someone pass an apology along.

The insistence that they would see each other again was clearly baseless. They wouldn't – couldn't – see each other again. Tim valued his life too much for that. "Yeah, well, that'll be some time coming." The barest edge of Belfast bled into his voice, any attempt at marshaling his feelings abandoned. It didn't matter if Wilkes saw the frustration; maybe it was for the best that he was reminded that it wasn't just an Irish name he'd fucked, witting or no.

Shoving the coins back into his pocket, Tim snatched up his own cup to take to the washboard in the kitchen, refusing to waste another second of his time on the infuriating man.