thenearshore | (no subject)

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Who: Dana Scully and Brad Crawford
What: There's nothing like a shopping trip to help build a solid bond of trust between god and shinki. A shopping trip for weapons, that is.
Where: A strip mall gun shop, Somewhere with Lenient Handgun Purchase Laws, USA
When: June 24th
Warnings: So a dead FBI agent walks into a gun store with a member of an international criminal organization... (but probably no actual violence will occur!)

[There were a lot of interesting questions, Scully reflected, that she was going to wind up testing. One, how reliable was the Internet about gun laws, really?

Two, was it going to be easier convincing someone she had valid ID if they couldn't remember she was there after looking away for five seconds (she had had some experience with that while trying to expand her wardrobe from "one bikini, one hospital gown, open in the back," and it was infuriating) or was it going to be harder? Especially considering that she didn't have any valid ID?

And three, was she American, and had she ever been convicted of a felony?

Four, which she didn't entirely count because she didn't think she really felt like the felonious sort, if she had been, would getting her purchase denied be enough of a clue to turn her into a monster on the spot?

Maybe she should excuse herself outside for a smoke while it processed. For safety's sake.

The storefront was as dreary as anyplace she could imagine, a few ads pasted over windows that hadn't been cleaned recently enough, probably because the metal bars welded across them made it a challenge. She glanced to the side at Crawford, who had -- because gods apparently got all sorts of unfairly useful powers, among which were getting from Japan to Helsinki or to the United States as easily as stepping through a door -- been her ride.]

Shall we?

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Ready when you are.

[It's with a great sense of amusement that he ushers her into that tiny gun shop; her apprehension sparking a delicious sense of irony. Crawford doesn't know much about her, beside her death, but he's fairly confident she's not the one who should be concerned in situations such as these. He wouldn't be surprised if she was a member of law enforcement after all, though at the very least, he was rather confident she too hadn't been a freelance assassin working for a psychic death cult.

The elderly shop keeper doesn't pay them much mind beyond an initial greeting, too busy watching an old TV behind the counter. This probably should be a relief for someone who has lived a life like his, but Crawford rarely finds concern in such matters. He hadn't gotten as far as he had without having to fake credentials, and worse case scenario he'd just kill the shop keeper and stage an accident. It was, essentially, Eszett 101. Anyone that knew him would know that plan...

...but they don't really know each other that well, do they?

His gaze slides to her, if only just briefly. They had so far avoided most of the...unpleasantries life could bring, but he has to wonder where her line would actually be drawn? Somehow he knew (and had long since learned not to question) they were have to part ways at some point due to....let's say 'moral discrepancies,' but the exact time frame on that is still disappointingly unclear. Schuldig might find such the unknown exciting, but Crawford's always been annoyed by vagueness. For the time being, he'll just have to find patience. She's proving to be far too useful to simply dispo....dismiss.

Sighing, he stops by the counter, barely peering down at the selection, pretending his frown is simple contemplation.]

Do you happen to know what you're looking for?

[Scully, on the other hand, is promptly focused on the selection. She's been doing some research; she's sure there's more information on the Internet than there used to be, which is an advantage when most of the hardcopy she has ready to hand is inconveniently written in Japanese. And not preschool Japanese, either, which is right about where her comprehension level still languishes.

Some of the boxes on display are dust-choked (unpopular models, she supposes, or overpriced) but most of them are clean enough to suggest regular turnover.]

Semi-automatic handgun, 9mm or .38 -- I was looking at the SIG-Sauer 226 in that new ergonomic grip....

[She's crouching to further search the boxes as she speaks, and glances up at Crawford.]

... with a small of the back holster, I think.

[She shrugs her shoulders in the light blazer she's picked for today -- it's too hot in Texas in June even for a light blazer, but she's more comfortable dressed for business, and it's the kind of garment that would easily hide a holster at her back while allowing for quick access.]

Well. That's rather specific, [Crawford replies, tone as dry as the Texan heat.

Definitely law enforcement. That's an officer's gun. And he seeks to arm her.

What's the world coming to?

After giving her a sideways look, he glances to the shopkeep then starts to peruse with mild interest, like he didn't already know what was waiting for her in one of these musty old boxes.]

Maybe you'll find something you can work with though.

[Unlike himself. He certainly won't buy anything today. He's far more picky than she is, for one thing. For another, he prefers his firearms to be less...serialed.

From the corner of his eye, a familiar-looking box catching his attention. Wordlessly, he nudges it in her direction.]

[She glances up at him with a smile.]

Search engines are wonderful things. I didn't want to keep you waiting around while I browsed.

[Brightening at the sight of the box, she pulls it over and checks the label. Yes -- about right -- good. She leans over the desk, waving one hand to get the attention of the shopkeeper.]

Hello. Excuse me? I'm looking to buy. Can I try handling this one?

[The man looks up from his daytime TV show, and looks her over: she can see the judgments slotting into place behind his eyes. She's slight, she's pretty, she's dressed in a nice pantsuit and accompanied by a man around her age.

"Sure, little lady," he says, checking the label and pulling out a pocketknife to slice the tape over the ends.

'Little lady' indeed. Scully's smile goes slightly fixed: sometimes she really hates smug older men. This one, however, is selling her a gun and not giving her any shit beyond a dismissive once-over, and she can grin and bear it for the next ten minutes if she has to.]

Thanks.

[The grip is more comfortable than the one she's...

... used to? Is she -- she stops herself from following that thought, feeling the uncomfortable prickle of apprehension starting, and checks the gun over. It's familiar otherwise, an old and well-proven design, and she sets it back in the box with a nod. The shopkeeper's gaze, meanwhile, has wandered back to the show (some Cops rerun) and he starts in surprise when she clears her throat at him again.

"Hey, did you open that box?" he demands. Scully stares wearily at him.]

You did. I'm buying it.

[Well... Crawford is buying it. What's the world coming to, that she's letting her partner pay?

He's also not exactly offering her a salary, so, she supposes, she's going to have to swallow that insult to her pride too.]

You're buying it, [Crawford echoes, probably too low for the shopkeeper to hear.

He hands her a few crisp bills with unrestrained amusement, and wonders if she'll be more or less annoyed he's 'letting' her pay. Her obvious disdain for the situation is already clear, and it does makes him wonder if she's too use to this type of thing. (Don't think that twinge went unnoticed.) A shinki who's triggered by simple deja vu may be a poor match for someone like him. He'll keep have to keep an eye on that.

The shopkeeper seems to give less hassle now that Crawford's stepped forward. (He's certain Scully will be less than enthused about that.) He starts packaging up 'their' purchase with minimal grumbling. Crawford turns his attention back to Scully.]

Did you find a holster?

With my generous salary.

[She tosses him a Look right back, taking the money and pointing out a black leather holster towards the back of the glass-fronted display case. She's been working for him for a few weeks now. She's earned this money that he's doling out to her like pin money, damn it. She will not be humiliated.]

That too.

[The salesman gets it out, applying a sticker to the edge of the box and stacking the two before he pulls out a form and slides it over to her. She stares down at it. Name -- that's no problem.

Age, birthdate, place of birth, current address....]

[You better believe it's generous, Ms Scully. Most aren't being paid for their servitude.

Crawford is content to let her shop, but as soon as he sees the form, and the hesitation, he steps in, sliding the paper a way from her. He reads it over with an arch of a brow.

Name. Age. Birthday.

That certainly won't do. He's not into the idea of courting blight, and frankly, he's not all that fond of paper trails either.]

How about I take care of this?[He says, counting on the 'old-fashioned' ideas of the proprietor for making this too complicated.

He gives Scully a well practiced smile.]

You can go wait in the car, dear.

[(Okay. Maybe that was a little indulgent. But if Scully wants that gun, she should probably keep her mouth shut.)]

[It's a really good thing for you, Brad Crawford, that she wants that gun more than she wants to step very hard on your instep in heels. There's a moment there where it's a toss-up, though.

Dear, indeed.

The proprietor shrugs, unconcerned, and flips a cheap and battered pen towards Crawford as he turns back to his daytime TV show. Scully shoots Crawford a warning glance -- she doesn't know what he's about to put on that sheet, but she's pretty sure it's a federal firearms violation, so maybe it's better if she doesn't know -- and heads out the door with a long, heel-clicking stride.

Outside, she leans against the doorjamb and crosses her arms, surveying the dusty parking lot as she listens for any sounds of trouble inside the shop. Maybe the blind spot that most people seem to have for gods and shinki will serve them well....]

[It's not a considerable amount of time later when Crawford joins her outside, carrying the spoilers of war in his arms. There had been no loud noise nor disturbance, yet he looks particularly smug. It's probably best not to ask.

He hands her the boxes, her gun and holster, then looks to his watch though they were running on a schedule.]

Was there anything else you needed while we were here?

[She really wants to ask.

For exactly the same reasons, she really doesn't want to ask. Scully stares at him for a long moment before letting out her breath on something that's almost a sigh, taking the boxes, and tucking them under her arm.]

No, I think that's all.

[-- No, dammit, she does want to ask. She shoots him a narrow-eyed glance.]

What did you tell him?

Hm?

[He turns to look at her with an expression that's just a little too innocuous; one that's complete unperturbed by whatever transaction had just taken place in the shop.]

I didn't have to say much of anything, really.

[Technically, he's telling the truth. Leave well enough alone, Scully.]

[She knows she should. It's not that she actually wants to go in and return the weapon, and she's going to use it with appropriate law-abiding care... except, of course, that she can't abide by the law. She's not alive. She doesn't know who she was.

The thought sends a guilty chill down the back of her neck. She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath before resettling the boxes under her arm.]

... Good.

[It's not, but she can't help it. She meets Crawford's gaze again, evenly.]

So let's go.

[That small, sudden jolt of a sting doesn't go unnoticed. Although it's enough for Crawford to narrow his eyes just a fraction, he shrugs it off with a practice smile.]

Back to the temple then?

[Crawford's eyes narrow, and Scully glances at him uncertainly.

Still, he's smiling, although she finds herself unsure that the expression is completely sincere. Her own lips press thin for a moment before she nods.]

... Thank you. Incidentally.

[He's the one who's just bought her an expensive weapon at her own request, after all. She shouldn't be picking on his methods, no matter how much it pricks her conscience to know they can't be strictly legal.]

And yes, I suppose we should.

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sorry about stinging you there, Crawford

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