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Donovan’s swearing between Marlboros in his dented Potomac. This job was supposed to be quick is what he’d told Clay— don’t get theatrical with it is what he’d said, just make it clean enough— but it’d been three hours since then. Look, he knew Lincoln could get dramatic with it, but even then. He’d done some recon work beforehand; at most, it would’ve been an hour-long job if done “non-clean”. Apparently fucking not even by that measure. He ashes the last of a second pack and reaches for a third. His right hand spasms in frustration.
He rests his non-scarred hand on the steering wheel after an unsuccessful attempt to find another pack. Maybe he’s nervous about something. Tastes more like frustration but the two run together anyway. His other hand keeps spasming. He rubs it absentmindedly.
“Christ, what’s taking so long?”
It’s hot, it’s humid, and it stinks to high-fucking-hell; it’s the same mental drone that’s been replaying since he showed up in Louisiana. You know what it’s like? That fucking river in-country. God, he hated that shit. Vitriolic hate, the shit that used to make him vomit as a kid. Langley at least had fucking air conditioning if nothing else. Donovan loosens his tie more. God, would his hand stop spasming?
There comes a tap on the passenger-side window. Donovan scurries to open the door and shove his loose trash somewhere off the dashboard. Usually his car was cleaner than this. It was the stress getting to him. Begs the question of what really stresses him out anyway; war didn’t have this effect (that he would acknowledge), but nearly losing one person did. Even the Company might’ve had moral qualms with that.
“Took you long enough,” he says around a straw he’d gotten from some takeout place near the Hollow. Food was too greasy for him. “What’s with the holdup?”
Clay slides in wordlessly and looks for a lighter. Donovan tosses him one.
“Lincoln?”
“What?” There’s an annoyed lilt in his tone as he lights up a cigarette. He pockets the lighter and wipes away some blood from his face. Probably not his own. “Got any tissues?”
“Would restaurant napkins work?”
“I don’t fuckin’ care. So long as it works.”
“Figured you’d need a few.” Clay had never been one to shy away from making a mess. It was fine in the jungle, but Donovan’d heard that linoleum was a real bitch to clean up. Well, not his problem. He jerks a thumb behind the front seat. “They’re in the back.”
Lincoln reaches behind, snagging the container of brown restaurant napkins Donovan may have stolen from the motel’s breakfast area. The C.I.A. doesn’t quite pay enough for a napkin fund. Or a food fund, for that matter. Still a government agency in the end or something like that.
“Oh, so your car is tidy but not your room?” Clay wipes some blood from his chin, half-smiling at Donovan. The smile doesn’t quite reach the eyes is the first thing Donovan notices.
“The fuck are you, my mother?”
“Might as well be, with your folders all over the goddamn place.”
“Ha-ha. Well then mom, want to give me a goodnight kiss?”
“I’ll smack you upside the head, how ‘bout that?”
“Ha ha, you always had a way with words,” Donovan smirks. “Just like my old woman.”
Lincoln’s smile grows to the side as he scoffs. He tosses the napkins out the window. Donovan fixes the rearview mirror.
”Hungry?”
”Sure.”
”You have any recommendations?” He flicks the low beams on. “And don’t say that stupid Waffle House place or whatever the hell it’s called.” Southerners have no class.
Lincoln rolls his eyes as his response. “Not Scaletta’s place, that’s for fuckin’ sure,” Clay says, ashing his cigarette. Finally— it was one of those cheap ones that smelled terrible to nobody but Donovan. What? He’s picky.
“God, no. Word is, if it’s not Italian, it’s salmonella.” Donovan pulls out of the parking lot, cursing Louisiana’s shitty roads along the way. Mostly internally.
Lincoln gives a genuine laugh. “You’re right on that one.”
“I, well, I also got some food at the motel, if you’re itching for a place to crash.”
Clay shrugs. “Fine by me. Social battery low?”
“Something like that.” It was Donovan’s turn to shrug. “Also, don’t down the whole bottle this time, that shit ain’t cheap.”
Clay shoots a look. “You’re on my payroll, I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”
”Then reimburse me.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ll buy you a new bottle next time.”
“See, now was that so hard?”
Clay shoots another look at him.
Donovan flicks on the turn signal at the light. He’d considered running it but there’s cops all over the goddamned place and he doesn’t need a ticket or to be pulled over. The trunk still had FBI equipment in it: not to mention Lincoln Clay being his passenger. He sighs.
“Are you alright?”
”I’m fine.”
“Bullshit you are.” The car jerks to the right as Donovan’s hand spasms again. Jesus fucking Christ. He gets it back into the middle lane after clipping a curb. The Potomac had seen worse. Nothing he couldn’t fix on his own despite his car knowledge being limited to a high school mechanics course. “Look, you don’t have to tell me. But if there’s anything I can do—”
“Jus’ shuddup an’ drive, man.” It’s more sad than angry. Clay reaches for the radio knob and turns it to some rock station. Donovan almost changes it. His hand hovers before muttering a “never mind” and making a right-hand turn.
“Fine,” Donovan says. Clay’s face is illuminated by the flame from the lighter he keeps messing with, dancing in the veil of misery or rage. He isn’t going to listen, not in this mood. It’s not worth the fight. Sometimes Clay’s emotions got to be too much and he needed time. Donovan knew that better than anyone else in this goddamned city, save for the Padre. Unlike the Padre, though, he understood the problem intimately. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as they wait in traffic. Sweat keeps leaking from his hands until Clay rolls down a window. No words, just music and the goddamned hot summer wind.