The rain is beating down against the windows, each drop hitting the hood of the car with the velocity of a bullet. He checks his watch every minute or so, scowling as the small hand remains stubbornly in place as if to mock him. His driver sits in the front seat, staring out the windshield with a tight, firm frown playing over his face. Any other decent, well-respected employer would apologize for infringing on his dutiful employee at such an odd hour of the night, but Michael is neither decent nor well-respected. Besides, he has more important matters on his mind than the annoyance of an old, battered man who had taken Michael’s money as a pledge to turn his head the other way.

He checks his watch again, a soft, low curse slipping from his lips. He told the little punk he had hired for the job to meet him at two, and here it was, five after two and he wasn’t in sight. Michael had a fondness for punctuality, and expected others to have the same, especially when his reputation was on the line like this. This is what you get for hiring off the streets, he reminds himself, adjusting his tie as he looked out the window for any sign of the street rat. This is what you get when you think with the head that’s not sitting on your shoulders. The street rat had come well-recommended; he had been warned not to be fooled by that innocent little face, that behind those big eyes and those soft cheeks lie something wicked. All well and good, but Michael had better things to do than sit in his car at two in the morning, waiting for an asshole that apparently didn’t know how to read time correctly.

Tap tap. The door opens, and the little devil himself slides into the seat next to Michael. He’s soaked, and rain drops cling to his too-long lashes. Lips quivering from the cold, splotches of blood splattered artfully on his cheeks, he turns to Michael and smiles, his eyes ice cold and lifeless. “It’s done.”

“And the body?”

“The fish of the Hudson thank you for your generous food donation.” The laugh that slips from James’ lips is chilling, and the desire that Michael felt the instant he saw James returns with a vengeance. They lock eyes, and James smirks as he pulls his gloves off, letting them drop to the floorboard without care. “Itty bitty pieces is all that’s left. Doubt they’ll find anything to identify a body with.”

Normally this is the part where Michael hands over an envelope thick with dollar bills, thanks the hired hand and never sees them again. But not this time. He’s intrigued by this pretty yet deranged street rat, and he can think of much better ways of paying him for his services than just money. Reaching into his coat , he pulls out his handkerchief, reaching out and gently dabbing away the blood spots lined along James’ cheekbones. “I have another job for you,” he murmurs, smiling demurely as he tucks the cloth back into his coat pocket. “However, I have a different method of payment in mind. Is that alright with you, Mr. McAvoy?”

James smirks, grabbing Michael’s wrist with an alarming quickness. Before Michael can stop him, James slides his mouth over one of Michael’s gloved finger. Completely unexpected, as no man in the city was stupid enough to try and touch Michael Fassbender. But it was not entirely unwelcome, a sharp, pervasive thrill of pleasure courses through Michael’s body as James finally pulls back with a loud, exaggerated pop. Well-recommended indeed.

“Mr. Fassbender, I think this is the start of a beautiful partnership.”