Setting Fire to Clients (Open)

[Pryderi 'Fidget' Smith]

Pryderi Smith liked his job. No, that was wrong. He adored his job. Still wrong. He loved his job. His job was perfect and wonderful and he wished he could spend his entire life doing it.

The one problem? The clients. He hated every last one of them.

Pryderi, known as 'Fidget' by just about everyone around him, was an accountant. A very good accountant. He could do magic with numbers, could make them dance and twirl and make wonders.

His clients tended to not like numbers. Because the firm sent him all the problem customers. It made sense after all. Who could be trusted with the richest, with the most incompetent but him?

And he hated them. With a passion. And he had a lot of passion to hate with. Right now, he was busy hating the woman who had just left, who'd brought her child in with her and who'd touched nearly everything in his little office. He was no fan of people touching his things.

So, now he was sitting, flicking one of his lighters on and off, in an urgent attempt to calm himself. One of the few things he loved more then numbers was fire after all...

The phone rang. He sighed, put down his lighter, and answered it.

"Mr. Smith?"
"Yes?"
"Sending in a new client for you."

...A new client. Goodie goodie gumdrops.

[James Grayson]

There was a knock on the door, and then it opened. "Mr. Smith?" The male voice had an English accent, crisp and clear. "Well, I hope so, since you're sitting in his office." The figure on the other side of the door ducked in, then carefully closed the door behind him before turning to face Pryderi with what looked like a warm smile at first glance but didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Grayson. James Grayson."

As he straightened, it became clear that he'd ducked into the office because if he hadn't there'd be an embarrassing dent in the lintel. It also became clear that he was wearing black leather gloves, and that under the trenchcoat he was wearing casual clothing rather than the more usual suit-and-tie, and the T-shirt was tight enough that it could have been painted on.

"Good afternoon."

Accountants were a necessary part of life, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy their presence. Still, rumour had it that this one was the best, which would either mean that he was going to help or he was going to get curious and blow the whole game wide open, and Grayson would be moving again.

Haiti might be nice. Or Antigua. Either way, this one was a looker. One of Grayson's eyebrows twitched upwards ever so slightly, a subtle ping to check for interest returned.

[Pryderi 'Fidget' Smith]

Well. The accent was a nice change. He'd missed hearing the cadences of the Isles here in the US. And he'd found himself with a near irrational hatred for both twang and drawl. Horrible things to do to words...

Oh. A joke. Fun. At least it hadn't been about his age. He hated those. As much as he liked the benefits his youth afforded him, in some areas it made his fingers itch for the one two three of his lighters...

The warm smile was... almost familiar. It reminded him of his own smile really. Especially the eyes.

"It's nice to meet you Mr. Grayson."

A tinge of Irish lilt in his voice. Not actually his native accent, but certainly more recognizable. Most of the people he met didn't know Wales existed. Or thought he was talking about the animal.

And... That was not what people usually showed up in his office wearing.

Almost against his will, his eyes traced the lines of the other man's body.

Tall. Very tall. Clear fondness for leather, and looking very good in it. Dark hair, bright eyes. Whip thin and tasting faintly of reptile under the overlaying muddle. And, in his opinion, hotter then the blasted Miami sun which did horrible things to his skin.

"Please, sit down and tell me what you've come to the firm for."

He was used to concealing things, so he was... somewhat certain he'd concealed his... appreciation.

He realized belatedly that there were four different lighters still on his desk and the usual files had moved a bit to reveal the scorch marks.

...Drat.

[James Grayson]

Grayson stepped over to settle into the offered chair, all grace and power and pride - almost predatory, one might say. He shrugged out of his coat and folded it neatly over the back, revealing that if the T-shirt was painted on then he'd somehow managed to attach short sleeves to his shoulders. If he knew he was playing to an appreciative audience then it was subtle, but he didn't seem to be doing anything special as far as he was concerned - nor did he seem to have picked up on the scent or reptile. Or the number of lighters and the scorchmarks.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith. I've recently moved to Miami, and I'm in need of an accountant, a good one. I tend to get paid in large lump sums, so keeping track of things - and presenting everything properly to the IRS - is important. And since I prefer a quiet life, I find it as well to get sorted out within a couple of weeks. The firm I used in New York recommended this firm, and they've recommended you."

The smile gained a conspiratorially-amused edge. "I think I may have been typecast, don't you?" Because who would show up to an accountant's in that outfit but rich trouble, after all...

"But on the other hand, if you'd rather not work with an Englishman, I'll understand."

[Pryderi 'Fidget' Smith]

The refuge of professionalism was a welcome one. Drooling over your new client was something Not Done in the world of accountants.

...Then again, neither were most of Fidget's little...habits.

He checks to make sure he has enough lighters in the drawer before slipping them back in and adjusting the files.

There.

All nice and normal.

...He wasn't sure what it was. But a little red alert in his mind had just gone off.

...The large lump sums thing was curious but not too out of the ordinary.

...But who in the hell, outside of those in his line of work, said things like 'presenting everything properly to the IRS'?

He would admit, at least in the privacy of his mind, that he liked the ego stroking. It didn't happen often.

Yelling? Yes. Idiocy? All the time. But praise? ...Not so much.

"We do have a good reputation. And I'm the best here. I have to be."

He paused and found himself smiling. Oh, there were worse things then the English...

"Oh, I have no trouble working with an Englishman. At least as long as they don't make jokes about potatoes, ask why I'm not ginger or say 'pip'."

He allowed himself another indulgent moment, fingers tapping one two three, as his eyes searched for patterns. He smiled a bit absently as he found them. Threes and fives.

"So Mr. Grayson, let's start at the beginning. Might I enquire as to your line of work?"

[James Grayson]

"Oh, I'm a management consultant," Grayson said amiably. "One of those people who goes into a business and tells them everything their staff already knew but the directors hadn't bothered to ask. It pays nicely, but it's by the individual job rather than a wage. The hazards of self-employment."

That almost-warm smile made a reappearance, but from cool those pale eyes were turning sharper. Grayson was good at hiding what he was thinking - very good indeed - but he was coming to a lot of interesting conclusions.

"I try not to joke about potatoes, Mr. Smith; I know the Irish are mostly not red-haired, and I only say 'pip pip' if someone's being obnoxious and I'm taking the Michael. As for me, please feel free to assume that I'm the most evil man in existence, but understand that even evil likes to keep the books balanced. I apologise for not twirling my moustache, but I appear to have left it in my other trousers."

It was presented as a joke filled with irony and self-deprecation, but to ears already leaning in that direction it would be a comment that'd be taken as anything but as innocent as it seemed on the face of it.

[Pryderi 'Fidget' Smith]

He believed the 'management consultant' line about as much as he believed his own 'oh, I just collect them' line about his lighters.

There wasn't a single one of that lot that would show up looking like that.

He knew some of them. They tended to be among his worst clients and wore suits like they wore their smugness.

...He frequently wanted to chuck his calculator at their heads.

...He had no desire to chuck a calculator at this man's head. Possibly his phone number though.

He offered his most bland smile in return.

"I think we'll get along just fine then."

So. Let's see...

Possibly a drug dealer. Weapons smuggler. People smuggler. Or just a thief.

Miami did tend to be a center for such things...

But really, how could he talk? He set as many fires as he could get away with in his spare time and occasionally cooked up explosives just to keep the skills fresh.

Just don't ask him what he actually did. That tended to make people a bit... tetchy. And setting clients on fire was also a thing Not Done. Besides, if he roasted one, he'd end up roasting them all. And it really would be a shame to waste such an attractive man.

"So, Mr. Grayson, since we're starting at the beginning... Citizen status, current residence, I'll need the tax records for the last three years, do you have any property, any dependants, what insurance do you have and are you currently married?"

...And no. Of course he wasn't planning on using the answer to that last question in any way shape or form.

And if you believed that, he had a bridge to sell you.

[James Grayson]

A most bland smile. Either the accountant was trying to focus on business, or he really wasn't interested - but something told Grayson that it was more likely the former. Time to turn it down a notch, then, since Grayson did actually need a good accountant.

"Permanent right of residence." Grayson turned to pull a file out of the folds of his coat; it was slim and black, fitting the image perfectly even if it wasn't leather-bound. "Current residence is a hotel in a particularly gopping shade of pink in Miami beach, I'm still looking for somewhere more permanent here. Property none, dependants none, insurance is public liability, life and... lost the word. The one where if you screw things up your clients don't get your suit. That one. And no, I'm not married, nor have I ever been married."

He set the folder down neatly on Pryderi's desk, in a position that was both parallel with the edges and covering the largest visible scorchmark. "The last seven years of tax records - I prefer to be thorough - and a copy of the other documentation my New York accountants said would be relevant, Mr. Smith."

The records included a period of a few months near the start of the Shapeshifter Fever where nothing went into the account and very little came out; other than that, whatever Grayson did was very well-paid if not exactly steady work, and the payments had increased over time.

[Pryderi 'Fidget' Smith]

Almost absently, he took notes, smiling unthinkingly at the 'not married'.

And then... he felt his eye twitch. File on his desk. File that wasn't his on his desk.

Okay. Calm down. His fingers, which had been absently tapping out one two three sped up. One two three one two three four five one two three. The pattern helped him focus, kept his fingers from itching for his lighters.

Clawing back serenity, his mind caught up to what it had heard.

...That sealed it.

Whatever this man was doing wasn't legal.

No one engaged in any legal business thought to bring that much paperwork. Unless he'd done the taxes himself, getting even a couple of years was like pulling teeth.

And who actually listened to their accountants? Unless, of course, they said the magic phrase 'IRS investigation'.

"Thank you Mr. Grayson. I'm sure this will make my job much easier."

Hands still shaking, part of his mind pleading for fire, he reached out, taking the file, reminding himself 'It's mine now. It's going to go into my filing and organized just so...'

A quick flip through revealed... Oh goody. Further proof.

"I have to say, I've never had a client show up so well prepared. Suppose it must be a villian only thing."

Despite what some people thought, he did actually have a sense of humor...

He tried to keep the 'I know half of what you're telling me is a lie' subtext out of his voice.

"Vehicals? Have you attended school in the past year? I'll need a list of the companies that have employed you, to ensure there aren't any problems lurking there. Not to insult my fellow accountants in New York, but I find it's best to check these things myself."

[James Grayson]

"I try to pay attention to the little details, Mr. Smith," Grayson replied, the corners of his lips twitching upwards in what might actually be a genuine - if sardonic - little smile. "After all, it's where the Devil lurks. Paint me red and call me Nick if that isn't so." That might not quite do the trick, but the addition of horns and a goatee would complete the image just perfectly.

He settled back in his seat, the very image of calm relaxation - even if that was a lie. A thread of tension never quite seemed to fade, though it'd take sharp eyes to see it. "I apologise for the undue distress. I own a motorbike - a 1977 Honda Shadow - and a car, a 2003 Ford Escort which should be arriving shortly. I haven't attended school in the last year. The list of companies is in the file, along with a letter from my previous accountants."

And then a soft chuckle, the smile losing some of its sardonic edge. "Despite all evidence to the contrary, I'm not actually interested in world domination, Mr. Smith. The world is far too much trouble for me to want to bother looking after it, even for its own good. I prefer my villainy to be much more..." His voice dropped to a low purr. "Personal."

[Pryderi 'Fidget' Smith]

"Oh, I'm certain you're not the Devil Mr. Grayson. For one you don't have hooves and I notice a distinct lack of tail."

The bland little smile vanished, just for a moment, a hint of madness glinting in Pryderi's eyes and his lips curling up in an almost Cheshire cat smile, before it was all covered up again.

"And it's fine Mr. Grayson. I'm a bit... particular. I'm quite used to adapting." He made a few more notes before looking up again, pushing his glasses up.

A blush tinged his cheeks for a moment, even as one of his eyebrows raised. "I don't recall mentioning world domination Mr. Grayson. There's a whole range of villainy open without taking on such a frankly foolish task." Yes. Like setting things on fire.

Getting himself back under control, ignoring his mind's continued gleeful assessment and thoughts of that very nice voice, he continued with his questions.

"I assume there will be notes in the file about your charitable deductions for the current tax year? Did you move for work? Have you had any illnesses and do you have any pets?"

[James Grayson]

"It's amazing what they can do with boots these days," Grayson remarked drily, amused again. He decided not to ask just how closely the little accountant had been watching to be sure there was no tail - the answer might be embarrassing for the poor man.

And then there was a gleam of Something Else, something that had Grayson's eyebrows lifting outwardly even as his inner serpent sat up and took notice. There was another side to this mathematical genius after all, one rather more in line with the scorchmarks on the desk than the twitchy tapping of fingertips when the file had been set on it with care.

"There might be a whole range, but I'll have to enquire with the local Union of Evil as to what's already going on in this city, of course," Grayson said. "I wouldn't want to trample on another entity's toes by accident, after all - that sort of thing is bad for business. I've heard there are a lot of lawyers in this town, too - that always swells the villainous ranks. There aren't any notes about charitable donations thils year, because I haven't made any yet. I did move for work, I don't have any pets, but I do suffer from the long-term effects of Febris Versipellis. The charities I donate to are always for fellow sufferers, and I'll be looking into the local situation before I donate."

Hopefully the man would recognise the quote. "I do turn into a snake, Mr. Smith, and it does help."

[Pryderi 'Fidget' Smith]

"I'm sure they can. If you require modifications to accommodate goat legs, I'm certain I can get you a deduction."

Back to normal. Normal normal normal, with his fingers back to tapping one two three.

"I'm certain that you can find your niche Mr. Grayson. We have quite a large union here. Look for UE Local 666. I'm reasonablly certain they have a volcano somewhere about."

Ah. No wonder he smelled a bit like a reptile...

"If you'll get me an itemized list of the expenses you incurred and I'll see about getting the appropriate deductions."

For a moment he paused and then smiled again, more gently this time.

"How nice of you Mr. Grayson. always nice to someone so civic minded... You're not alone in that by the way. At least not in this room."

Just for a moment, he licked his lips, revealing the fork in his tongue.

"As it happens, I turn into a lizard."

...A bit of an understatment, considering the size of the lizard he turned into, but far from his fault...

"And I'm certain if you need my assitance, I can find you an average five year old child, a talented fashion designer and a team of board-certified architects and surveyors to examine your castle. Our firm does aim to provide assistance Mr. Grayson."

[James Grayson]

"A volcano, you say? Hmm. I'm in the market for a piece of volcano-based real estate myself - do you know if there are any nearby with genuine lava flows? Fake lava is just so seventies."

Grayson's smile was gaining warmth, definitely. "I'll make you the list up as soon as I've finished moving, Mr. Smith. And - well, I did wonder. It's always good to meet a fellow sufferer, especially one with a sense of humour who changes into a relative."

And then the smile turned into an outright grin at the last statement, revealing canines on the large end of normal for a human.

"An average five year old child would be useful in time, as would the team of board-certified architects and surveyors, although that sort of play is still a good way into the future. As for the talented fashion designer, Mr. Smith, there's not much point in being bent as a nine bob note if you can't claim that your dress sense is just too good for the rest of the world to comprehend. Thank you for the offer, though - it's much appreciated. And please rest assured that I did read the rule about loyal henchmen and what not to do with them. You may not be my henchman, even if you do decide to take on my accounting, but the principle still stands."

[Pryderi 'Fidget' Smith]

"Thank you Mr. Grayson. I find people tend to forget that there are all sorts of lovely ways for them to legally keep the IRS from carrying off bags of their money. I like to remind them." The 'occasionally' went unsaid. He honestly hated most of his clients, and was about as inclined to help that as he was to jump into a boiling lake.

"And yes. Oddly enough, according to most people, I wouldn't know a joke if it bit me. And yes. I don't exactly make a habit of inquiring, but sometimes it's not to hard to pick it out."

Like when someone had a forked tongue. Or scales (which were spreading).

And... Oh, he knew that term. He certainly knew that term. ...Was Mr. Grayson always this prone to such banter? Fidget himself wasn't much inclined to revealing his sexuality to... anyone.

"Of course sir, please tell me if I can be of assistance. And thank you. I really would prefer not to be cannon fodder. And I'm quite certain I'll be taking on your account. For one, you don't make me want to kill you, and that's a mark in your favor most of my clients don't have."

He paused. Just for a moment.

"If you like, I can get you a list of the local gay bars and clubs in the area. Might make your search for further henchmen easier."

Of course, he didn't go to them. Mostly because his fashion sense wasn't exactly... flamboyant. And also because in those situations he had an intense urge to set fires.