Chapter Text
Geoff would like to say now that the Disaster is quelled, now that the ‘Flu is receding, now that the Great Hunt is called off, now that the city is slowly mending from the scars of war, that it means life is easier. Granted, the Guard has reduced the number of rabid Skals over the last few years, but that only means Priwen is busy focusing on hunting the more sinister of beasts. Too many of which remain just outside of Priwen's reach, protected by their webs of social influence and money.
He would also like to say his life, personally, is easier now that his Guard are no longer dealing with a fool of a leech doctor racing around London trying to stop the end of the world.
Unfortunately, that is not the case.
"You really shouldn't drink so much coffee, Geoffrey. Too much caffeine is bad for your blood pressure and the acid is not good for your stomach."
Geoff looks up from the report he's reading with a pained grimace to find none other than Jonathan Emmet Reid standing on the threshold of his open window. The Guard abandoned the theatre for one of their former headquarters when the epidemic receded, which puts Geoff's current office-slash-bedroom three floors up with two high-arched windows, with no balcony. Yet there Reid is--pale-blue eyes bright despite the faint bruised shadows underneath, hands clasped around his back and dressed in his familiar wool coat and bowler. He is smiling, too, as if he's offered Geoff a helpful piece of information.
"McCullum will do," Geoff grounds out. "And how the fuck do you know how much coffee I've had--if you say you can sense it in my blood, I will shoot you."
Reid remains silent, smile in place.
Geoff has kept up his part of their bargain. Reid’s name remains at the bottom of his list as long as he behaves. But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t raised brows nor does it mean he’s ever given an explicit order for his men to stand down. Annoyingly it seems the good doctor has managed to negotiate his own uneasy truce with a number of his Guard since their cemetery chat. Likely helped along by how often he’s yanked one of them out of the snapping jaws of a sewer beast or stitched them back together. That said, Geoff still feels the night’s lookout deserves a bollocking for missing the man-shaped creature blocking Geoff’s window.
"Feckin' hell," Geoff mutters. He abandons the report and turns in his chair to fully face the window. "What do you want, Reid?"
Reid straightens his shoulders, preens. "You requested to be alerted to any particularly interesting news I might come across through my toff circles."
"A letter wouldn't serve?" Geoff asks pointedly.
"Well, I was passing through..."
There are several things Geoff could do to rid himself of his windowsill gargoyle. A throwing knife. His pistol. His crossbow. Hell, his heavy glass ashtray. All within convenient reach and lethal enough to at least wing the beast and send him on his way. Instead he leans back in his chair and waves a hand at Reid.
"Get on with it then."
"You won't invite me inside?"
"I can hear you fine from there," Geoff snaps at the amused smile curving Reid's lips.
Reid hums. "Very well."
He recounts the various tidbits of information he's gathered about his peers as he goes about his doctoring. Some confirming reports brought in by Priwen scouts. Some unsettlingly new, though Geoff is careful to keep that to himself. At the end of it he stands there, peering in expectantly, while Geoff shuffles through the mess on his desk for a cigarette and lighter.
"What?" Geoff asks with all the kindness of a wet cat.
Reid passing along information is not some formalized arrangement. In fact, Geoff hadn’t actually meant for the doctor to follow-through when he’d thrown that taunt out the last time they’d crossed paths, so Geoff considers the leech's continued existence as payment plenty. Reid however apparently thinks more is due given his roll of eyes. Shows how much of a gentleman he is.
"A 'thank you' would be the very least you could offer. McCullum."
Geoff returns a long look as he tucks a cigarette between his lips. "T'anks."
He's raising the lighter to the cigarette's tip when Reid comments, "You know, you really should cut back on--"
He's flung his lighter at the blur of shadows before his functioning mind catches up with the action.
Next evening when he wakes there's a lighter--new, shiny, expensive--sat on the outside ledge of his windowsill. He doesn't wonder how it got there because that might mean he wonders about who left it. He wrenches his window open and glares at it. Contemplates tossing it out after his battered, second-hand one lost now to the city's depths.
He snatches it up instead and storms over to his desk for his cigarette box. Pinches a cigarette between his lips, strikes up the lighter--of course it lights first attempt and butter smooth--and glares at the dancing flame.
And glares.
"Feck."
He snaps the lighter shut with a flick of his wrist and bites the cigarette between his teeth.
"Feck!"
Having his breakfast first won't hurt anything. He'll have his first smoke of the day after.
Perfectly normal.