A blotch of red marks John's palm. There, beside him, is a remnant of the teacup stained the same red.
"I'm bleeding!" cries John.
Roger reaches for a cloth in his pocket. "Here, let me get you—"
"Fuck!" John wails. He coils into himself. "Oh, my ass! I think I broke something!"
"He fell no more than three feet," the curly-haired whispers to the man with black nail polish.
"Hush."
"You're alright, Deaks." Roger kneels in front of John. He's trembling, ass (allegedly) broken and all. Roger wraps the cloth around John's palm. He sighs, showing a smile as warm as a mother's. "I've got you. I'm sorry. I didn't think all that would fall down with you."
John promptly ignores Roger, but he still offers his hand for medical assistance. "Mr. Beach, I'm really sorry about all of this. I didn't mean to cuss earlier, too. I just... I don't think I heard you right. Slice of pie? Is that what you said?"
"Spies of Rhye," replies Mr. Beach, bone-chillingly stern.
"Yeah?" John leans back, his eyebrows closing in on each other. A bead of sweat trickles down and reaches the skin above his lips. He swipes it slowly and surely with his good hand, keeping a watchful eye on Mr. Beach. "Some sort of school club spying on rye bread? Prices have been going up lately."
Mr. Beach isn't impressed by John's quip. Roger glances up at John. "It's best you stop taunting and let him talk," he warns.
"I mean, a pound and eight pence! Isn't it crazy?"
"Agent, give him space," Mr. Beach commands. Roger cranes his neck back. He eyes Mr. Beach carefully before shifting away from John.
John can't help but laugh. "Agent? Rog, you never struck me as a roleplayer."
Mr. Beach bellows, "Oh, will you stop all that chatter!"
John is stunned silent. He shoots a look for help from Roger, but he gives nothing but a sorry shrug. He huffs. "Go on, then."
"You said he'd be a good addition." One of the men nudges Roger.
"He is! He's just a bit of a skeptic, that's all."
Mr. Beach begins, "You know Agent 049, Roger Taylor."
"Yeah, got that." John cocks his head. "Who's the poodle?"
The poodle tightens his lip. "I don't like him."
"You will!" Roger insists.
"Agent 039."
"It's Brian May. Well, just Brian. Brian's alright." He extends his hand for a shake. John takes it, and uses him as momentum to stand. "I do the gizmos and stuff."
John thinks he's a bit of a dork. "Never seen you around school."
"How daft is this guy?"
"Hey!"
"Beside him"—Miami intervenes—"is Agent 145. Freddie Bulsara."
John eyes him up and down. He cracks a smile.
"I don't bite, darling." The gruffness to his voice catches John off guard.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen." Freddie swoops his hair back and winks. "Bit rude to ask, isn't it?"
Roger breaks from the line and returns to his snappy friend. "Deaks, you're usually not this pissy. I thought you would've found this pretty cool. I mean, didn't we always say, 'partners in crime'?"
