So welcome (back (again)) to the wacky world of MarionArnold after a long drought. I find Job a wonderful character and although he has some fabulous lines in Banshee I wanted to devote more attention to him.

Shout out to Wilusa whose story 'Enigma' gave me a heading for how to interpret Job. Currently his sexuality hasn't been clarified in the show (probably deliberately) and while I haven't made him gun barrel straight my OC is female.

This is set between season 1 and 2.

Chapter 1

Fuck.

He could feel the eyes on him.

Normally that wouldn't have worried him. He was used to people staring at him, at his male figure encased in typically female clothes. He would normally just ignore them or otherwise stare them down until they looked away discomforted. He did not accept that they had any right to judge him. They could never understand him. They were beneath him.

But today had not gone to plan it had been a cluster fuck actually: he was tired, he wanted a shower and the woman who was currently organising his night's accommodation behind the desk was working at glacial speed.

He was not in a charitable mood.

"Can I help you?" he demanded, turning to look directly at the woman standing beside him. Provincial he decided after an encompassing glance at her t-shirt, shorts and boots for fuck's sake – just like all of the other hicks and rednecks in this god forsaken place.

The startled expression on her face was almost enough to make him regret his tone. Almost.

"I'm sorry", she said quietly. "I didn't mean to stare. I just... um... I"

"You got a sentence in there sweetheart or not?" he mocked, cocking a brow.

She straightened, it still only brought the top of her head to his chin but her eyes flashed as if she was looking down on him. "I like your shoes", she said evenly.

Job blinked, her composure in the face of his best 'bitch please' face not what he had been expecting. "They're Ann Demeulemeester" he replied loftily to put her in her place.

"Gesundheit."

Definitely not what he had been expecting and he looked a little more closely at her. A more polar opposite of Carrie (it was almost natural to use that name now) he couldn't have found if he had gone looking. She was nothing special to look at, short enough not to be tall but too big to be considered petite or dainty with a decent rack and large hips that managed to give her curves that took away some of the softness in her belly. Her hair was short: a couple of few weeks ago it would have still had its style but she had let it grow a little too much and it was a non descript sort of brown, slightly lighter than her naturally arched but woefully maintained eyebrows and while she had high cheekbones that would hold her facial structure into old age, her face was a little too round, her lips a little too thin, her chin a little too pronounced for real beauty. Her deep brown eyes however, they were something special and they were currently laughing at him.

Strangely it wasn't all that unpleasant.

"She's a Belgium designer", he found himself explaining in a milder tone. "Most of her work is in clothing, but she occasionally designs shoes specific for her collection." (1)

"Well that explains why I haven't seen anything like them before", the woman acknowledged dryly. "You wear them well."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, her tone was certainly light but there didn't seem to be any maliciousness. It was strangely accented as well South African perhaps? Her last sentence could have been the end of the conversation, but he was curious now. "I have three pairs of her shoes", he admitted after a moment.

"So – and I'm just taking a wild guess here," she responded with more than a hint of wryness, turning a smile up to him, "you're not a local are you?"

"Hell no", he said before his suspicion caught up with his mouth. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm a tourist", she shrugged easily, smirking at his initial response. "I was trying to get some information about the local area but these people don't seem to want to talk to me."

"Talking to me is not going to help your chances," he said wryly, noting how the lady behind the desk was looking at them. A lilt of his brow was enough to make her flush and scrabble with the paperwork.

The tourist turned to follow his gaze and snorted. "Strangely enough", she stood up on her toes and leaned in confidentially as the woman got her papers in order and walked towards them. "I don't give a flying fuck. Thanks", she said in a louder tone as she took her copies of the room hire and the key from the clerk. "Nice talking with you" she turned back to him and flashed a smile that lit up her eyes and showed off not quite perfect teeth.

"Uh-hmm," he watched her curves walk away with mild interest, a slight scent of lavender still in his nostrils.

"Ah….. sir?" It was the hesitancy that annoyed him most, as if the wench couldn't make up her mind as to what she was addressing. "Your card's been declined."

"Suck my tit," he cursed, himself as much as the somewhat flustered clerk in front of him. Stupid, stupid. "Did you use the end with the stripe?" The insult was more habit than anything.

"I'm sorry sir", at least she had come to a decision. "I tried it three times – it was declined. I could try it again but if it is declined again I will have to confiscate the card."

Hell you will, he thought and some of it must have made it to his face because her expression set. Of course he had three others in his purse that he could use, but they were all in different names and he could just imagine her reaction if he was to pass her one of those. Hood could pull it off with one of those shit eating grins that always managed to have the ladies dropping their panties for him - but that wasn't Job. Or not in his current outfit anyway. "Where is your phone?"

"Over there", she pointed obligingly enough with only a side glance at her companion, although whether that was because of her natural courtesy or whether she was glad to get rid of him was something that he could have laid bets on. His smile was accordingly somewhat snarky as he spun on his heel, his coat almost flouncing behind him. He ratted through his purse looking for change and bumped into something solid, the purse dropping from his hand. "Son of a..." he growled and dropped to his haunches, reaching around the pillar to retrieve the few coins and his lip gloss. Could the day get any worse?

"You take the right, you left."

Of course it could.

The voice was still familiar, even though slightly husky no doubt from the blow to his throat and Job looked carefully over his shoulder. Fuck, not good. The thug had brought two burly reinforcements inside - a quick look outside confirmed that there was another three there. One of them wasn't quite as good as the others at hiding the mach10 beneath his jacket. Fuck.

Drop the goods he could hear Hood's voice in his head (again the name was second nature now, it was actually difficult to remember him as he had been, who he had been, before.). Of course if Hood actually knew what goods he was dispensing advice about he might not have been so cavalier. One simply did not abandon several million dollars' worth of diamonds because a crooked fence didn't like being compelled to follow through with the negotiated price. Hell, Job figured he was owed those millions - for his business, for the inconvenience, for the hassle, for having to move his ass into a tinpot town like Banshee, for the trauma of the whole Rabbitt thing. He was going to sell these damn rocks as soon as he could and re-establish himself. He would keep a hold of Hood's cut until the man came to his senses.

His eyes searched ahead of him - the promised phone, a large potted plant and the two restrooms - there was no way out.

So he would have to make his own.

Careful to keep his face just slightly down so that the ends of the wig caressed his cheekbones he stood and sauntered to the ladies' room – he was not an inconspicuous figure though and he caught the swift turn of one of the thugs in the reflection off the phone box. Thankfully the room was empty – the prospect of a screamer who wouldn't take kindly to his entrance into the facilities a real one that would have made life even more difficult – and he cast his eyes around. There was a bench along on one (mirrored) wall with obligatory vases of potpourri flowers and soap dispensers, an old fashioned air dryer and waste bin just behind the swing of the door and the three stalls on the far wall, with the one disabled stall opposite the last two. His eyes were drawn to the two small windows to the outside but time was an issue. "Fuck" he swore and bent to pull at his shoes.

The door opened as he stepped inside the stall, he heard the man breathing as he eased into the room, apparently not entirely confident of who he had seen enter the room. "Anyone here?" he called out carefully.

Job stayed silent, controlling his breathing in the almost silence of the room and waited.

There was a footstep - then the first stall door was pushed open. Another step and the second one opened. "You in there bitch?" the man was apparently now feeling sure of himself. "Come out now darling and I….."

Job kicked the door of the disabled stall. Built to ensure that no-one got stuck inside, it opened outwards, slamming into the man half bent to examine the tips of Job's shoes perched near the base of the toilet in the opposite stall. There was a crunch and then a thud as the impact pushed the man into the other door. He groaned and lifted his arm, having only time to grimace before Job's fist struck him across the jaw and he slid unconscious to the floor.

"Asshole" muttered Job and opened the door to the other stall, picking his shoes up in one hand and stepping onto the bowl of the toilet and reefing open the window. It screeched in protest but allowed itself to be extended to its maximum height which was only just wide enough reflected Job with a grimace. He pushed his shoes and bag out the window, hearing them impact the pavement just below the window and reached up to grasp the edge.

There was a gasp behind him and he turned – the woman looked up from the body on the floor with horrified eyes.

"Well go on then" snarked Job.

She screamed.

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(1) The designer is real, but I couldn't see shoes in her collections.

There were a couple of little references which anyone who has read my previous works may notice. Just for fun, there is no link to any of those universes.

I would really enjoy hearing from you.