"It's a favor for a friend—the kind of friend who's almost died for me and somebody I would definitely die for. He never asks for anything, but he asked for this and I can do it. Just might take me a little longer than I thought. Tonight was meant to be recon, but I didn't even make it up to the front door." He took a long gulp of wine. Dixie was thirty percent certain you weren't supposed to drink wine quite like that, but he also didn't know shit about wine and wasn't one to judge anyway.
Picking up his fork, Byron jabbed it in Greg's direction. "Whose house and what were you stealing?"
"Timothy Rekker, and something called a Mason Chip."
Dixie was the one to drop a fork that time. "A Mason Chip? Why in the fucking hell are you trying to get your hands on a Mason Chip? You don't even know what that is, do you?"
"It's a special microchip that all G.O.D. computers require in order to sync with their spooky master system, according to L—my friend. There's something he needs, but he can't get to it without the chip, and if he tries to get one himself, he'll draw too much attention."
"One, not all G.O.D. computers have them. There's a set number of access points in the world, and a tightly controlled number of people who can use them. Access to the 'spooky master system' isn't something the Pantheon permits lightly. Two, taking the chip is too much attention no matter who does it," Dixie replied. "Anyway, even if you got it, wouldn't make a damned difference. Those chips only work for the people they're given to—people already on the approved list. And that list can only be accessed by three people. You can steal a thousand Mason Chips, but without the right clearance, they won't do your friend a lick of good."
Greg frowned like a cranky cat. Dixie could practically see the wasp ears. "So we need to kidnap one of those three people."
Byron choked on his beer, started laughing—laughed harder when Dixie lightly kicked him under the table.
"What's so funny?" Greg asked with a pout. Dixie wanted to pet him, settle all that ruffled fur.
"You don't need to kidnap anyone," Byron finally said, still chuckling off and on. "If you ask Dixie nicely, he'll be more than happy to get you the information and the access you need. Our problem—" he gestured between himself and Dixie, "—is that we haven't been able to get one. But once we have it, Dixie can do the rest. We can help you and your friend, though he's going to have to step up and join the party."
Greg gnawed on his bottom lip so hard Dixie worried he'd tear it. Finally looking up, he said, "I'll talk to him, but don't get your hopes up. He keeps to himself for good reason, and he's got more trust issues than the rest of us combined."
"Okay," Byron said. "Do your best. We won't hurt him, though. If he's out for G.O.D. blood then he's a brother in arms. Now eat before dinner gets cold. We'll discuss more of this tomorrow."
"Yes, Your Highness," Dixie drawled, and snickered when Byron kicked him.
He finished eating a few minutes later and cracked a yawn that made his eyes water. "I'm going to bed. Done been awake too damned long. Wake me up if it's life or death, and woe betide the fool who wakes me up for any other reason."
"Understood," Byron replied with a smile. "Sweet dreams."
"Ya'll sleep well." Dixie pushed away from the table, deposited his dirty dishes in the sink and his empty beer bottle in the trash, then wended through the maze of tunnels and stairs to his bedroom on the opposite side of the building, a little corner room Byron always kept for him.
Most of the space was taken up by his bed; the rest of it was filled with a small bathroom, a closet, and tables crammed with various electronics that Dixie wasn't comfortable keeping in his own house. Stripping down to his boxers, setting his clothes on top of a cardboard box that often doubled as a makeshift table, he turned out the light, fell into bed, and dropped almost immediately into sleep.
He woke up a few hours later, stomach growling for a snack. Rolling over onto his back, Dixie sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and reached for his clothes. He scratched the back of his neck, fingers running over the too-smooth bit of skin that wasn't really skin at all. His fingers twitched, trembled, and he dropped them in his lap before shaking himself and getting dressed. Dwelling had never done anyone a lick of good, and he wasn't gonna start now.
Hauling out of his room, he headed for the kitchen to seek out a snack.
Instead he found a cat leaning against the island drinking a mug of hot milk, wearing nothing but a slinky, clingy little pair of black boxers. "I didn't think cream was actually good for cats."
"Haha, a cat joke. I've never heard those before, every single fucking day of my life," Greg muttered.
Dixie gave a slow grin. "Does puss need a scritch behind the ears? Would that make you feel—" He jumped out of the way as Greg tried to thwack him, easily caught his slender wrist, then the other one when the second hand came swinging, and smoothly pinned them at the small of Greg's back.
Which put that lithe little body distractingly close to his own. Made him acutely aware Greg was wearing next to nothing, and he wouldn't mind at all finding out how it felt to have Greg pinned under him.
Dixie let him go and went to the jar on the counter where he knew Byron always kept cookies. Ooh, chocolate chip with walnuts. He shoved one into his mouth and grabbed three more, then got the milk from
