(no subject)

He had half promised himself that he wouldn't be getting into anything that had the potential to get complicated again. He was getting too old for it. He even had something of a very part-time job driving the odd limo full of half drunken girls on a night out when it got busy for an old friend. It felt good to be helpful in small doses and at least the giggling droves wouldn't be stumbling into cars driven by shady men with certain foul intentions.

And the odd cheeky hand on his rear when he held open the car door was far easier to contend with than a slew of bullets and flailing fists.


Still, there was that niggling itch in the back of his mind. The itch that whispered how nice it would be to go on a good long drive somewhere and if he happened to deliver something at that somewhere and make a few bob out of it, well, that wouldn't be so bad. It was only those two times that there had been any trouble and it had been relatively wrinkle-free for a long time before that.

What's the worst that could happen? His car could get blown up? He'd already survived that and the gleaming replacement in the garage testified to it.

So when the next rare call came on his old "work" number, he didn't ignore it like he usually did but gave the old familiar answer.

"I'm listening."