it's in my nature {Tangerine | Bullet Train}

four. tangerine. ego death at the venn diagram intersection.

Lemon would probably call her a Diesel, and he'd be bloody well right to, Tangerine catches himself thinking with a scowl. The world outside slips by in the darkness, nothing more than scattered lines of light, disorientating anyone who tried to keep up, like Tangerine with his thoughts in this moment.

"My father hired the two of you," The Son's implied question of 'instead of her?' rang out infuriatingly clear. The audacity this kid has to look at his designated guards with disdain of all things, after everything they went through to make sure he was safe was almost enough to tip Tangerine over the edge and smack him after the series of revelations he'd just endured. But he's not. I'm not going to smack the son of The White Death; he wasn't the kind of person who had personal mantras, but this one was sounding pretty good right now.

"Yeah he did; your daddy hired us to get you out of the trouble you got yourself into, naughty, little frog," Tangerine's tone turns infuriatingly chipper, using the only non-violent way he can think of right now to get under The Son's skin. It clearly works, judging by the venomous look that's now being focused on him, "and we've all heard what tight a leash he keeps Miss Clementine on," there's something malevolent in his voice that he doesn't fight to hide, leaning in to make sure the other passengers can't hear his disparaging anger, "so I think if he wanted her on your case, he wouldn't have hired us." 

There's definitely more to read into this if he wanted to think about the implications of it all for even a few seconds, but he did not have the time or mental energy in this moment to spiral like that. Sitting up again, he finds once more that The Son's practiced flat expression irks him more than he ever wants to let on, like he's subconsciously hoping for a reaction, for proof that he holds even some power over this asshole.

"Is that why Tangerine?" This, the smugness, the look in his eyes like he's evaluating Tangerine across the table, this is worse than no reaction, even if Tangerine doesn't quite understand what he's asking or implying.

"What?" 

"If I were you," The Son shifts forward, oozing unwarranted condescension, "I wouldn't keep Tangerine knowing Clementine was alive." The mocking implication calls back to the stupid argument about whether or not Tangerine feels guilty about New York, which is a bloody moot point now all things considered, and the rest is nothing but an inaccurate guess meant to rile him up. I'm not going to take the bait, I'm not going to smack The Son, with each careful, controlled breath.

"Now seeing as the decisions you've made lead you to a place where you were able to be kidnapped as ransom bait by the Triad, despite you assumedly - well I bloody hope - knowing who your extremely psychotic, fucked up father is," Tangerine knows he's smiling by technicality only, to keep the surrounding passengers unaware of his sharply mounting frustration, "so I'm going to ignore your suggestion, considering, one;" holding up his hand with one extended finger for emphasis, "'s been my name for five years, and two," his smile grows wider, his tone grows brighter, the anger in his eyes still remains, "the decisions I've made are why we were hired by your dear, old dad, and why despite leaving seventeen dead bodies behind, you made it out with only a couple of scratches."

Finally a reaction from The Son, now petulantly scowling out the window, but thankfully keeping his mouth shut. It was enough to satisfy Tangerine's building frustration, letting himself breathe for a moment, ease the tense set of his shoulders, gazing back and forth down the aisle, refocusing, reassessing their carriage and their situation. No immediate threats. No Clementine. Relative peace, at least for a moment -

"Actually, it's sixteen." 

"What's that now?"

The second Lemon tries to correct him, there's that pesky twitch of his eyelid that he can't seem to repress no matter how hard he tries. No, it was seventeen. Seriously, how does he not remember all seventeen? Sure it's been a long day, they haven't exactly had much time to rest, and things have taken several turns for the unexpected, but -