A Distinctive Redhead

When every other language in the airport is foreign, of course it's easier to hear the English.

That, and the words are practically right in his ear, right across the back of the long bench of seats at the departure gate, of a flight that's been delayed and delayed again. It's not looking to be a crowded flight, there aren't many other people here. Scott's got his whole half of the bench to himself, free to pull his legs up and stretch them out across two other seats, prop his bag up behind him and lean against it.

And he doesn't mean to eavesdrop, honestly he doesn't, it just feels like such a long time since he heard any English. Above the early evening babble of other travelers, periodic announcements blaring from the nearby PA system cycle through several languages, same as the boards with posted flight details, departures and arrivals, dates and times. He does understand most of them, but still. It's probably not actually been more than a day, but he's also not too proud to admit to homesickness, to missing at least the sound of his first language.

Privately, at least.

And anyway, it's not Scott's fault that it's the sort of conversation that's just begging for someone to listen in on. It's not as though it's a loud conversation. Probably too quiet for anyone else to hear or be interested in. Theirs isn't looking as though it'll be a crowded flight, and their fellow travelers are scattered few and far between. Scott should probably feel guilty. Doesn't, though.

The nearby voice is patient, though starting to grow pained, annoyed with the other member of the conversation.

"—well, no. No—No—yeah, and also no. You're being a child—No. No, we're especially not going to do that. Now listen. Hey. Hey. Hey, so, just wondering, am I going to be getting a single word in here, or are you just gonna keep muttering at me?"

Girlfriend. Scott concludes, with all the sage, definite certainty of someone who's drawn entirely the wrong conclusion.

The guy on the other side of the bench is…well, he's American, at least, by the accent. He's sitting cross-legged in his own seat, his bag beside him and a tablet in his lap. Scott's careful not to look like he's looking at him, careful to steal only small glances, looking up from the book he hasn't been reading for the entire hour since this flight had first been delayed. It's a battered copy of Heart of Darkness. Darkness or otherwise, Scott doesn't have the heart for it right now.

"Uh huh. Yeah. Yes. Uh huh—no, now hold it, what I actually said was—don't do that, don't parrot me back to me, that's just—it's creepy. You know it's creepy, don't do that. …yeah. Yeah, right, getting off track—"

There's not much to see, anyway, he's got the silvery-grey hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, peeking out above the collar of a jacket that's cut so well it looks like it's been sculpted rather than tailored, all in shades of dark grey. Probably comparable in cost to your average plane ticket. Scott knows about having a tailor, knows how to dress. Incognito as he's meant to be, he's opted for the attempt to dress like a Russian native, or at least, what he's composited into his impression of a Russian native. The result is something vaguely sporty, unflatteringly slouchy, and colour-blocked in white, dark blue, and red, as opposed to the good ol' Red, White, and Blue. It feels a bit slovenly, but before now he hadn't really cared.

"—I understand. Okay? You've made your point. I know you don't like him, but I'm saying it's—no. No. Would you just let me finish? I'm saying that this isn't your skillset, and we're not gonna—this is an analog problem, not a digital one. He's not gonna—listen, it's not a electronic paper trail we'll have to worry about, because he'll slam my picture up against the window at whatever threshold we have to cross and say 'hey, seen this guy?' And someone will tell him 'yes, the gawky, distinctive-looking redhead with the facial piercings, he went that way'. And you can't guard against that, and I'm telling you I know better than to fight this. Just because he's not right here doesn't mean he's not watching. It's an airport. Limited exits. We'll do what he wants."

Yikes. Doesn't matter, anyway. What the other guy's talking about remains far more interesting than how he's dressed.

There's a loud, frustrated and strangely familiar sigh from across the back of the bench. "No, we're definitely not doing that. That is really, really illegal, even by your standards—yes, I'm aware of your principles, but so long as his objective tracks with our objective, I have no reason not to cooperate with him. So I'm sorry, but unless you wanna bail, that means you're along for the ride."

Sinister. In the middle of his own personal intrigue, Scott can't help but be distracted by the idea of someone else's. It's a welcome change. At least, until the other guy falls suddenly silent.

Above the gate across the lounge, a camera swivels slightly. Zooms. Scott wouldn't have thought anything of this, if it hadn't swiveled to point directly at him. He feels the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and pins his gaze firmly to pages forty-five and forty-six, where he reads the words "One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same" over and over again.

And then, "…hmm? What? Oh…really? Gimme the—oh, yeah, hey, you're right. Good catch. We'll talk about this later."

A few more moments pass. For in the space of the last couple, he thinks he's gotten away with it. Then there's a firm tap tap on Scott's shoulder and he looks up from his book, brushes off his Russian, and hopes that American cordiality doesn't betray him as he asks, "Yes? Can I help you?"

The hood's been knocked back, revealed the aforementioned distinctive redhead, facial piercings and all, two bright silver points between his eyes. There's something uncomfortably shrewd about his gaze, and his Russian is flawless. "Speak English as well as you read it?" he questions, and glances down at the pages of the book in Scott's hands.

Oops.

"Oh. Uh."

There's the threat of a grin playing at the corner of his new friend's mouth, something sort of privately amused in his gaze. "Good book."

Scott nods, snaps it closed and knows he's been caught. "Yeah. Old favourite."

"Must know it really well, not to have turned a page in the last hour."

There's a lesson to be learnt here, about observing strangers in airports. If one engages too long in people watching, eventually one becomes the sort of person worth watching. Scott's currently being watched by a pair of bright, intent green eyes, and hopes that his cheeks haven't gone bright red, that his first instinct to prickle under such overt observation isn't going to get him in trouble, "…Dude. That's kinda creepy, man."

"So's eavesdropping."

"I wasn't—"

He's cut off by another babble of Russian over the loudspeaker, as the flight attendant who's been manning the desk by their gate regrets to announce a delay of yet another hour. Scott and his new friend both look up at the news, and there's a low, irritated sigh. "This is getting dumb."

Well. He's got that right, anyway, even if it's an atypically obvious statement from this uncomfortably observant redhead. Still, Scott feels the need to assert, "I wasn't eavesdropping."

"Right."

"I wasn't."

There's a shrug and that faint smile again. "Sure, okay. Well, I wouldn't blame you, anyway."

It has to be getting caught in the lie that's made him so defensive. That, and the way this guy is just irritatingly superior, seems determined to show off his upper hand. "Maybe it's not polite to have private arguments in the middle of airports."

"Good advice," the redhead agrees solemnly. And then he gets up, holds out a hand across the back of the bench by way of introduction. "Feel like we got off on the wrong foot," he explains, even as Scott reflexively shakes his hand. "What's your name?"

"Steven."

"Joseph. I'm gonna go grab a drink. You want to come, Steven?" Scott probably imagines the barest moment of a pause before the other guy says the name that isn't his.

Well. It beats sitting at the gate for another hour.