Dressed to Kill // DNF

2.4

TW's: mini panic attack

George pulled back up in the driveway, his sour mood practically radiating off of him. Phil was waiting for him in front of one of the other cars—one they didn't use very often.

When the brunette boy got out of the black car, Phil gave him a halfhearted smile. "I'm meant to drive you to your next job, Mr. Davidson."

He nodded, his eyes feeling oddly heavy. "Right. And we're taking this car because...?"

"This is more of a...two part job, you could say," Phil offered. "And this car looks particularly expensive, which will be a benefit to you during your interactions with this subject."

George hummed unenthusiastically. "Alright. Weapons are in the back?"

At this, the butler hesitated. "Well, this part doesn't necessarily need the weapons." George raised an eyebrow. "You only need to be getting to know the...the subject." The target.

The brunette nodded, pulling open the back door of the car. He figured the clothes he was in were fine, if he was only getting to know whoever it was. Phil opened the driver's door, and slid into the car. George lounged across the backseat, arms crossed over his chest. 

The drive was short and quiet, neither of the passengers saying much the whole ride until Phil gave him an overview of today's job.

"His aunt and uncle, whom he lives with, just recently died in a plane crash. The subject comes from an incredibly wealthy family," Phil explained.

Figures, George thought bitterly.

"Today," the butler continued, "you're going to have to get to know him. Offer condolences, because theoretically, your mother and father were good friends of his aunt and uncle's."

"Get to know him, Phil?" George laughed humorlessly. "Get to know the person I'm supposed to be killing off for some money? Because we don't have enough already?"

With a quick glance into the rearview mirror, the brunette saw Phil's lips tighten into a grimace. "Mr. Davidson... I don't-" he cleared his throat, and trailed off, as if searching for the right words.

George sighed, his faint irritation sizzling out. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his gaze dropping to his hands in his lap. "I know it's not your rules."

All fell silent after that, neither of the two quite sure of what to say. The car pulled up to a rather large house, even for George's standards. He fidgeted with his hands, looking out the window. He wasn't nervous, though. George didn't get nervous for jobs.

He cleared his throat quietly. "Do I need anything else?"

When Phil shook his head silently, George took a deep, unenthused breath, and opened the car door. He stood, and before closing the door, leaned back in. "Are you going to stay? Or pick me up afterwards?"

"I'll wait," Phil replied shortly.

So George shut the car door, and made his way up the richly decorated walkway. How come he was so unexcited for this? His job had quite simply become unappealing to him. Which didn't make sense, seeing as less than a month ago, he was thrilled to have jobs. And now his feet dragged along the stone path, his hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets.

When he reached the door, he paused. Heaving a sigh, George untucked his hands from his pockets, tucked in his shirt, and straightened his posture. The fake ghost of a smile he usually wore graced his lips once again, and he rapped on the door a few times.

His hands folded at the small of his back as he waited patiently for the door to open. When it did, George took in the brown hair and hazel eyes in front of him. And his stomach dropped.