A Coalition Story

Big Brother Doesn't Approve

(heads up: Rachel will be out of town without her laptop Friday through Monday, so y'all got a dump of Friday and Monday's updates early)

Atticus hated Halloween. It was a cliche holiday that, as an actual spy whose livelihood relied on his ability to disguise himself, Atticus grew tired of at the ripe old age of seven. Atticus never had a mother to dress him up and take him trick-or-treating, and his father certainly wasn't the man to do it. At age seven, Atticus was expected to behave like an adult on Halloween. He was expected to watch over his little sister while she dressed up and begged strangers for candy while he had to act as the "parent." He was refused the opportunity to dress like his favorite superhero (Iron Man) and trick-or-treat alongside her. He decided that year that he hated Halloween.

And yet he still came to this stupid Halloween party every year, if only because there was free booze and Ravyn would kill him if he didn't. Ravyn would also kill him if he didn't arrive in costume. So here he was, in his best tuxedo, holding a martini in hand, and flirting shamelessly with the black cat beside him. Unfortunately, the guards had confiscated his Walther PPK (pistol) at the door, making his costume a smidge incomplete.

"There you are Atticus! What the hell are you wearing? I told you to dress up, Blackbourne!" Ravyn breathed out as a manner of greeting upon finding her best friend at the bar, pushing herself between him and the gorgeous blonde wearing a skintight black leather dress and cat ears perched on her head.

Atticus scowled at Ravyn, nudging her out of the way as he gently grabbed the blonde's arm before she could walk away.

"Excuse me, Ravyn, but I was in the middle of a conversation with Eliz- Lis- Lil-" Atticus stumbled, glancing down at the blonde girl. "I'm sorry, what was your name again, beautiful?"

Atticus shouldn't have been surprised at the slap he received. Served him right for drinking so many martinis and trying to pick up the beautiful woman. He vaguely remembered her mentioning being an assassin. That explained the sharp sting of her slap. Usually, Atticus was able to shrug off the slaps he received from girls, but he had a feeling this one had left a red print on his face.

Ravyn ignored her friend's pain as the other gal stalked off and instead raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him.

"Well? Where's your costume?"

"I'm wearing it for Christ's sake, Ray," Atticus grumbled, motioning to the bartender for a fresh martini as he downed his.

"You're wearing your tux," Ravyn deadpanned.

"My best tuxedo," Atticus corrected, finger raised.

"A tuxedo is not a costume."

"It is if you're James Bond."

"James--Atticus Hamish Blackbourne the Third!" Ravyn practically screeched, catching the attention of a few people nearby. "James Bond is not a costume when you are already James freaking Bond!"

"I'm not James Bond though," Atticus reasoned with a shrug. Ravyn's glare deepened.

"You are a spy. With a proclivity for martinis and women. How are you not James Bond?" Ravyn argued.

Atticus didn't have a response to that. Ravyn made a fair point. But the simplicity of the costume was exactly why Atticus had chosen it. Honestly, it shouldn't have surprised Ravyn. She knew he detested the holiday. He suspected that she was trying to change his opinion of it, given that every year she basically forced him to participate in the festivities.

"So you went with a classic sexy vampire, I see," Atticus changed the subject, motioning to Ravyn's wardrobe. She looked quite stunning in the short, skintight dress with the cape and makeup to finish off the look. She had even included some realistic-looking bite marks on her neck.

"Well, I needed something to get Lev's attention," Ravyn shrugged, turning slightly away from Atticus as she scanned the crowd for the aforementioned Russian. Atticus rolled his eyes and clenched his drink a little tighter. He too, however, scanned the crowd for the dirtbag.

And unfortunately, he found him standing way too close to his sister in a corner of the room. Atticus didn't even remember that his best friend was beside him as he surged forward, almost knocking her over as he ran to his sister's rescue.

"Get away from her, Lev, or so help me—" Atticus began, nearly breaking the glass in his hand in order to use it as a weapon.

"Ace, back off," Alice all but barked at her brother, her glare freezing Atticus in his tracks. Alice seldom glared at him like that.

"Lev got the creep away from me. He's not who you think he is."

Creep? What creep? Atticus only now noticed that Mercutio fellow struggling to get up from the floor, groaning a bit in pain. Huh. Okay so maybe Lev got one creep away from Alice, but that didn't help that he was also a creep in Atticus' book. Which was why he was still glaring at Lev, silently willing the other boy to walk away or drop-dead (hopefully the latter).

"Told you, Atticus. He's not who you think he is. I swear you're even more cynical than I am," Ravyn butted in, rolling her eyes.

And then, before Atticus could respond to Ravyn's sass or start threatening Lev to leave his sister alone again, his sister did the weirdest thing. She smiled – smiled! – up at the bastard and asked him to dance. Atticus was so shocked by the behavior he almost missed Lev responding in the affirmative and the two waltzing off to the dance floor (not literally; Lev probably couldn't waltz). Atticus thought he was going to have an aneurysm. He certainly needed another drink now.