Nick watches dispassionately as the interrogation drags on.
“He’s not going to break.”
“What are you going to do?”
At this, Nick smirks, eyes narrowing at the sullen, tow-headed, petty criminal with exceptional skill playing with a pen, defiant even with his arms handcuffed to the table. “What I can. Total blackout, Coulson. Stop the recording.”
With a sharp nod and wary eyes, Coulson exits, cutting off the video feed. “Careful, Boss. He looks like a fighter.”
The first thing Nick does is wave away the guards from the door. This gets but a tiny reaction from the man lounging in handcuffs—a little quirk of the eyebrows—but it’s a reaction that’s not the boy running his mouth. Nick’ll take it.
He forgoes the chair on the other side of the table for just leaning a hip against the table, arms crossed.
And stares. Just stares.
The blond breaks first, slumping into his seat. “This whole set-up’s just wonderful—like a 5 star ho-fucking-tel—but I have a thin, lumpy cot to get back to an’some cigs t’sell, so if we can just hurry this up a little, that’ll be swell.”
Nick stays silent.
“Look, man, if you’re not gunna say nothin’, why are you wastin’ m’time?”
“Clinton Francis Barton,” he begins, each syllable a physical weight. Barton grimaces at ‘Francis’, and Nick grins, smile full of teeth. “There’s been some buzz about you from the higher ups, but quite frankly, I don’t see it.” The moment where Barton’s smug face falls just a bit brings a dark shiver of satisfaction down his spine. “We’ve got plenty of cocksure men to recruit, and while your little tricks are impressive, we can find better.”
“Then find ‘em an’ leave me ‘lone,” Barton shoots back, but it’s less sure more defensive. The wild dog look is in his eyes, and Nick wants to see if he will bite or not.
Nick shrugs. “I’d like that. You’d think I want to waste my time with a two-bit circus boy when I can be getting my dick sucked? Hell no.” He spreads his legs subtly, calculatingly, and almost laughs when Barton’s eyes drift down to his lap. Oh, Nick had Barton’s number, and the boy didn’t even know it. “In fact, I think you should try and convince me. Why should we recruit your sorry ass?”
Barton is silent. Nick takes a moment to look at the man’s face. He’s pretty in an unassuming way—features hardened from a tough life. Still. Pretty.
Nick shrugs and leaves the table, shrugging on his coat. “Hope you like being Bubba’s bitch, Barto—“
He cocks an eyebrow and a hip. “Waiting.”
“What d’you want me t’say?”
“I’m sick of talking.”
Barton huffs out a breath, squirming, agitated. “Fine, whaddya want me t’do then?”
Nick pauses, considering. He makes a few thoughtful hums before pinning the tow-headed man with long gaze and tilting his head.