Log:Files and Contracts
Every so often, Morrison Lester would turn up like a bad penny. Oh, sure, it would be under the premise of something business related, some legal matter having to do with the factory, probably sent by his father. At least, those were the usual reasons given. So it wasn't any particular surprise, one might imagine, when he turned up in Theodore's office, as he sometimes did, sitting in one of the chairs, sprawled comfortably, with one of his law books in hand, flipping through the pages, having made himself right at home. He was dressed in a pair of jeans, doc marten's, a plain white t-shirt and a blue and black plaid flannel, not likely having come from the factory since he doesn't look like he's been working machinery all day.
One of the benefits of being important is that when someone is waiting in your office, someone tells you about it on your way in. So as Theodore steps through the door into his office he hardly looks surprised to see Morrison there. He's dressed in a three piece suit of unrelieved black, other than the jacket which hangs on a hanger on the inside of his office door. Even his shirt and tie are black. It's a risky choice in different materials, but he's made it work. The only spots of color on him are the glints of gold on his ring and cufflinks.
He steps inside and shuts the door beside him, seemingly ready with some barb on his tongue, only to notice Morrison is clean and his usual admonishment about machine grease would be pointless. "Morrison." It's a sign of familiarity that he uses the other man's first name. Even in high school he liked to default to last names.
Morrison doesn't immediately look up from the book when Theodore walks into the office. Instead, he finishes whatever line he was reading before he closes it and replaces it on the shelf exactly where he's taken it from, rising to his feet, and then turning to take in Theodore's appearance from head to toe. One brow ticks up in amusement when no barb comes. "What? No scathing commentary? You're losing your touch, Theo," he says as he takes a couple of steps toward the man. "I like the black on black look. Very.. dark."
"Well, you didn't tack mud into my office this time." There's the faintest tick of a smile and then it's gone. "Maybe I'm just pre-empting the funeral. Doesn't matter whose." Theo says vaguely. He gives a little tug on his cuffs as he makes his way over to his desk. He doesn't move around to his chair though, instead leaning back against it, arms folding together over his chest. "I assume you're here on business." There's that little bit of sharpness. Blue eyes lock on Morrison for a moment then flick towards the door and back.
Morrison walks right up to Theodore, getting into his personal space with little regard for the door other than to have noted that it was closed after Theo had come in. "You always are prepared with a plan," he says before following the flick of the man's eyes toward the door and then back again. "Of course," he says, and nods to an envelope sitting on the desk where he'd left it. There are likely some contract negotiations for the factory inside, some acceptable pretense for his arrival. He smiles, then, a flash of white teeth that's almost wolfish.
Theo is good at maintaining his neutral face for the moment. He has rules, and one of those is at work emotion is to be kept to a minimum. Even for those he normally thaws a bit for. He reaches over and picks up the envelope, hefting it in his hand before setting it in another location on his desk for dealing with later. "I'll go over them and get back to your father." He reaches out and places his finger tips against Morrison's chest, to an onlooker it might appear as if he's attempting to push the man away for a few inches of personal space, but there's no pressure, just contact. "Don't dance around what you want, Morrison. You're no good at not being direct."
Except that the contact has the opposite effect, and Morrison only steps closer. "You know I don't dance," he says before he reaches out and catches the back of Theo's neck with one hand and pulls him in for a hard, and demanding kiss. He presses in close, pushing Theo up against the chair until it rolls back and hits the desk, stopping its progress. When it breaks, he says in a low growl, "Maybe I was just enjoying the view. You look good."
Well, Theo permits the kiss to go on for more than a mere moment, and then there is a light push against Morrison's chest. Once he gets free there's a forced glare and a tug at the bottom of his vest to make sure his appearance hasn't been marred too much from the rough handling. "You know I don't like that at work, Morrison." His voice isn't as harsh as it could be, nor is his glare. "Brenda is working here now, and she's not exactly one to mind closed doors." He takes a moment to check his tie. "Especially my closed door." There's that cold ice in his voice that shows his anger.
Morrison's smile returns, that slightly predatory glint in his eyes that says he knows all too well how much Theo doesn't like taking risks at the office. That's why he does it, after all. He murmurs, "Don't worry. I didn't even muss your hair, Mr. Marchant. No thread out of line for the Missus to notice." He does take a step back at the little push though, and he does take another, stepping away from the chair, and Theodore. "Besides, I wouldn't have to hunt you down in your office if you didn't spend so much time holed up here."
"Father is pushing me to take on more of the bank operations." Theo says levely. "Now that it's obvious that the triplets have no interest." He can't help but roll his eyes slightly at the mention of his siblings. Even though Morrison assures him his hair isn't mussed, the very mention has him running a palm along his hair to check. He grabs the chair and moves it back into position. "But, fair enough. Tonight? I'll rent us a room." No doubt he has a hotel in mind. Nice enough not to be a pit, not so nice as the concierge will be all up in their business. "I could use an evening to unwind."
Of course, perhaps that's /why/ Morrison told him that his hair wasn't mussed. He's known Theo long enough to know his reactions, and he leans up against a bookshelf, arms crossed in front of him. He's staked his claim upon the man's mouth and seems content to let him have his space now, crossing one ankle over the other. "But you knew the triplets would never really have any interest. It was bound to go to you eventually," he says. "You're going to end up inheriting all of it piece by piece." Because that seems to be the foregone conclusion. "Good," he says, about the room. "I'd hate to have to barricade your office door and muss your paperwork."
Theodore shakes his head. "They made it too easy on me. I was actually hoping for a bit of a challenge in that department." Now that he's sure he's got all his bits and pieaces in order and the way they should look he resumes leaning on his desk. He also knows when Morrison is just trying to get a rise out of him and lets the words roll off his back. "You should take notes from my ex. She's already a master of trapping me in here." For just a moment he looks.. hunted, but it quickly passes. "You get to pick up the beers, this time. And none of that Bud swill you used to loot from your father. Real beer."
"You never know. They're young, yet. They could surprise you in a few years," Morrison says. "You can call me when you need somewhere to dump the bodies." He glances toward the door when Theo mentions his ex and says, "Maybe I will. How do you think that conversation would go, I wonder?" That smile returns, and then he smirks, knowing Theo's just getting him back, but he takes the bait anyway. "You know I haven't stolen Bud out of dad's fridge in years. I'll bring some real beer."
Theodore arches one brow in disbelief at Morrison's lack of beer filching, then just shakes his head. "I doubt they'll show interest until money becomes an issue." He takes his seat at his desk. "I'll leave the key in the usual spot." In an envelope adressed to Morrison left at Kokomo. "For now, I now have an even taller pile of paperwork to dig my way through." He picks up the envelope from his desk and gives a little tap against the desktop with it.
Morrison pulls away from the bookshelf, straightening and drifting toward the door, knowing the sound of a dismissal when he hears it coming. "I'll make it up to you later," he promises, for leaving him more work, and then opens the door and slips out with a, "Good afternoon, Mr. Marchant," in the typical half-growled tone he uses with everyone else. It's for the benefit of those listening in to whatever comes out of the now open office door. Then he shuts it behind him and heads out.