cottoncandypink | Adventure to Rowan

Oh, c'mon now Wilford. Things can always get worse when you throw a Moriarty into the mix.

Jim is slouched sideways over an armchair, his legs hanging over the armrest, reading a textbook. He's doing his three-day visit, and taking the opportunity to get used to being on land again.

'I'd ask what you're wearing,' he drawls, in a bored monotone, and without looking up from the page. 'But I don't think I could bear the answer.'

Ah, great. The day just got worse.

"What?" He looks down at his shirt. Whatever. He likes this shirt. "Better than what you're wearing."

Hmm. Maybe Jim can be useful today.

"Shouldn't you be off having an obscene amount of sex right now?"

Jim spares a glance - one eye only - over the top of his book, because his shorts and T-shirt are Gucci and Armani respectively, so no.

Then he licks his finger, and turns a page.

'I'm recharging for the afternoon, evening and night.'

He could be joking, but he's not. What? Sherlock's his favourite pastime.

'What's wrong?'

Oh, good. So Jim doesn't have anything important planned. Perfect.

"I have to go take care of something, but everyone else is being a big bitch baby about it and it's a two-person job. You ever been out to Rowan?"

Probably not, because Jim is still alive.

'Why would I possibly want to go to Rowan?'

And why would he ever want to help Wilford out?

'Because I hate it and I'm too scared to go alone' is a terrible answer. Especially when Jim is involved.

"Because I guarantee you've never seen anything like it in your goddamn life," Wilford says.

And this coming from someone for whom monsters under the bed is just a normal thing.

"It's fucking weird. You'll love it."

He'll hate it. Everyone hates it out there.

Hmm. Never seen anything like it in his life? Interesting. He glances back over the top of his book.

'If you say I'll love it, it's undoubtedly not true.'

Thing is, Jim doesn't care if he hates things or not. So long as they're not boring.

"No, you're right. You'll fucking hate it. Almost the same thing, right?"

Wilford shrugs. "But it's better than sitting in here all day."

Please don't make him go alone. D:

'I bet it's not.'

He's back to his monotone drawl.

'And I don't have to stay in here all day. I could leave right now, go and enjoy myself.'

But he can also always enjoy himself after seeing something he's never seen before. And there's always...hmm.

Why is everyone being such a bitch today? At least Jim is talking to him, and not pretending to have lost his phone.

"You can't even do a pal a favour? Wow, rude."

He's lowered himself to asking for favours. Ugh.

'Oh, this is a favour. So you'll owe me?'

That's funny. Double funny, given the opportunity a trip like this might provide.

"Yeah, sure. Why not. We both win."

Or they'll both die horribly! Who knows!

Jim regards him a moment. Then smiles, in a manner not at all meant to reassure.

'All right. I'll just fetch my shades from upstairs.'

Wilford could not possibly be reassured right now. It's taking every ounce of his acting abilities to not come off like the nervous wreck he feels like right now. Today, it's a good thing he tends to be irritable and cranky all the time, apparently.

"Cool. Hurry up. I want to get out of there before it gets dark."

Seriously. Fuck the desert.

Jim is not convinced he's not a nervous wreck, but doesn't care either way. He's not passing up a chance like this. He definitely does not hurry, sauntering towards the stairs and up to his suite....where he does not head to his dressing room, but goes to his workshop instead, where all the cool shit is kept. Two minutes later he re-emerges from his rooms and walks back towards the stairs, at the bottom of which he takes sunglasses from his pocket and slips them on for show.

'Come on then.'

Wilford opens the door, which leads into the living room. Like Wilford's clothes, there's a certain 'someone's been up all night in a mild panic' quality about it, despite Wilford not really having much to clutter up the place, but he's usually better at not leaving random coffee cups and beer cans lying about than he has been.

Speaking of coffee, he makes a quick detour to the kitchen to fill up a travel mug as full as it will go, before finding his keys and sunglasses on one of the counters.

"Let's go. We'll grab lunch on the way out."

He's suddenly realised he hasn't eaten anything since yesterday. That would probably be a good thing to do.

He leads the way down to the garage, through Autor's part of the house, immediately plugging his phone into the power and hooking up the bluetooth as soon as he's in the driver's seat.

Jim wanders through the house, taking it all in from behind his shades but making no comment. As soon as he gets in the car, he puts his feet up on the dashboard.

'What is it you have to take care of?'

Wilford rolls his eyes. Jim's feet on the dash will never not be irritating.

"I have to pick something up," he says.

He frowns at the GPS telling him where Rowan is, and pulls out of the garage. Once they're out in the sun, he puts his own shades on and first heads to a cheap drive-thru on the way to the freeway.

Several bags of road munchies for the both of them later, they're finally heading east out of the city and toward the desert.

"It's about halfway between here and Las Venturas. Should only take a couple hours to get there."

Did he mention that part? Whoops.

He had no idea that was irritating. None.

'I know where it is.'

Jim eats a fry out of a bag. Then two more, then chucks the bag up on the dash behind his feet, and ignores it.

'And whatever you have to pick up is something that has you worried, so...how'd you lose the dog this time?'

What an absolute son of a bitch. Wilford only doesn't lean over to snatch the bag off the dash because it will only encourage Jim to keep doing it.

"I didn't," he says. "Nick did, because nobody taught her how to close a fucking gate."

No point in lying about it now. He's got his buddy in the car with him, though that doesn't make him feel any more safe about it.

'Then why aren't you sending her out into the desert to get him back?'

Jim is not going to help get the dog back. He'll sit in the car.

Wilford responds with an annoyed grumble. Nichola's not on his happy list right now.

Before too long, they're out of the city, and heading through sparse suburbs. Palm trees become less frequent and more sad-looking, while scrub and sage become more frequent.

"How much of the area have you seen?" Wilford asks, suddenly more serious. His nerves are starting to get to him a little more, but there's little point in pretending otherwise now.

'None.'

Wilford does not have to mention his nerves. They come off him in waves, and are annoying. Jim is trying to ignore them, but they sort of fill the car.

'Apart from my visit to your dear brother, I haven't left Los Santos.'

UGH. That. Of course. Fucking Walter.

"Where's he live?" Wilford genuinely doesn't know. He doesn't care either, except it'll let him know what he needs to tell Jim.

'About ninety minutes in the other direction.'

Jim is not going to tell him, because Walter could still be useful and he doesn't want Wilford to know where to get his hands on him. Obviously he could find out, but it'd take a phone call or two. Minutes can be valuable in tight situations.

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