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elementof_riskHe almost left a dozen times. He packed the car, at the very least, made sure everything essential was in it, then pulled his overnight bag back out, because if he had to run, he could. Alerting the front desk he was expecting a guest, he found himself watching the windows, pacing the room, tense with expecting a trap. It could be a trap so easily, a team sent in and him back in a cell, locked away with Marshall visiting with eggs once a month his only thing to look forward to. Not that he looked forward to Marshall's visits.
What the fuck was he doing?
Clearly he'd gone insane.
He almost left again.
But for some reason, he stayed, though he checked his gun, and recased the exit routes and made sure the car wasn't blocked in. Going a step further he had it pulled out, parked close enough to the exits that if he had to make a run for it, he wouldn't be held up. Locking the computer away, he made sure there was nothing in the room that Vaughn could use to access anything about his clients, then just kept his phone on him in case the other man sent another message.
Then he almost left again.
Because he was an idiot. And a masochist. And he should go, now, before this insanity went even further. Because it was insanity, clearly. Madness and insanity, and the last year had sent him over the edge beyond coming back. He set up a...what? Assignation? Tryst? Something with Michael Vaughn.
He'd lost his mind.
And if the man didn't get here soon, he was going to lose what little might be left of it. Or run. Or both.
How long did it take to drive from Los Angeles, anyway?
What the fuck was he doing?
Clearly he'd gone insane.
He almost left again.
But for some reason, he stayed, though he checked his gun, and recased the exit routes and made sure the car wasn't blocked in. Going a step further he had it pulled out, parked close enough to the exits that if he had to make a run for it, he wouldn't be held up. Locking the computer away, he made sure there was nothing in the room that Vaughn could use to access anything about his clients, then just kept his phone on him in case the other man sent another message.
Then he almost left again.
Because he was an idiot. And a masochist. And he should go, now, before this insanity went even further. Because it was insanity, clearly. Madness and insanity, and the last year had sent him over the edge beyond coming back. He set up a...what? Assignation? Tryst? Something with Michael Vaughn.
He'd lost his mind.
And if the man didn't get here soon, he was going to lose what little might be left of it. Or run. Or both.
How long did it take to drive from Los Angeles, anyway?
