Bangkok was a large, gorgeous, modern city, one of the most popular tourism spots in the world. It was clean and bright and vibrant, but it was still a city, and that meant it had an underbelly, and the portal Eliot had booked dropped him and Kanan off right in the middle of it, in front of a hole in the wall bar well off the beaten track catering to tourists.

"Spencer!" the bouncer called the moment they walked up to the door, then followed up with something in Thai that had Eliot grinning.

"Benny, my man!" Eliot and the bouncer exchanged a handshake/fistbump combo that had clearly been practiced a few times. "You still kissing your girlfriend with that mouth?"

"She's my wife now, and she loves it," the bouncer said, following Eliot's lead with the English and giving Kanan an obvious once-over. "Man, I knew you liked 'em younger than you, but come on."

Eliot snorted. "Don't even start, bubba. This here's my friend Kanan. Kanan, this is Benz. He'll help keep the authorities off our backs if we get into too much trouble."

Benz laughed. "Depends on what kind, man. Peach'll kill me if I come home with any more scars."

[for him's what's in the narrative. NFB and likely slow]

Eliot had dallied as long as he possibly could at Trudy's house, getting her family set up for lunch (most of them had already eaten breakfast) and chatting with his nieces and nephew, telling them increasingly outlandish, invented stories about his 20 years away. He even made it so far as offering to help Jake clean out the garage before Trudy managed to glare him down and remind him why he'd come all this way in the first place.

So it was mid-afternoon by the time he made it to the hospice. He half-expected -- or maybe it was half-hoped -- that when he asked for Emerson Spencer, the man behind the desk would just stare at him blankly. Instead he smiled and pointed out the way without having to look anything up. He hurried down the hall before she could start telling him what a lovely, amazing person his father was. Emerson Spencer had always been a pillar of the local community; the whole town probably still saw Eliot as the ungrateful kid who'd ditched his family first chance he got.

He knocked a couple times on the door and tried not to think too hard about how this was where he'd stalled out the last time he'd tried to reconnect. He wondered what was happening with his father's house, if Trudy was going to have to sell it. For the first time in a long time he thought about just how much work went into picking up after someone when they died; his job usually ended when the brain activity did.

Bad timing. Don't think about being an assassin. Or a disappointment. Just open the door, go in, and say --

"Hi, Dad."

( This was sure to go well )

Eliot could hardly believe he'd managed to talk Hardison into this. Sure, he'd managed it last year, too, for their first anniversary, but that was April. This was February. It wasn't super cold out -- there was no snow on the ground, and it spent enough time above freezing every day that nothing had iced over -- but it wasn't warm, either.

At least Hardison couldn't complain too much about pollen, this time of year.

Parker, of course, was totally down with the plan. She liked it when the boys initiated the romantic ideas, and she was up for anything that might involve s'mores and/or swinging around from trees. Eliot had even recruited her, along with some very well paid rickshaw drivers, to help him set everything up. A simple -- if lavish -- tent in the woods wasn't going to cut it this time. This time they were going to have themselves a whole cozy yurt.

It wasn't a large structure, not for just the three of them. It was just large enough to accommodate a king-sized air mattress, several piles of plush pillows and cushions, and a portable generator, all arranged around a modestly sized indoor fire pit with enough room to keep anything from catching fire. Warm paper lanterns and fairy lights lined the crease where the ceiling met the walls, the floors were covered in soft, warm rugs, and every lounging surface was covered in cozy warm furs and fleeces, as well as more typical fabric blankets.

"Right," Eliot said, as he pulled a box of matches from his pack and got the fire in the pit started. "So once this sucker warms up, there's only one rule: no clothes on in the yurt."

[ooc: for the partners, and up early for slowplay purposes.]

Eliot adjusted the cuffs of his suit and made one last swipe of his hand over his pulled back hair to make sure everything was in order. His character had to be sleazy, but in that creepy rich guy classy way. All aging college frat boy instead of used car salesman, like Nate tended to play. He gave his reflection a quick once over in the glass window in the mark's office door, then plastered on a confident grin and entered, making a beeline for the bored looking receptionist.

"Hey," he said, distractedly flirtatious. "Galen Tyrol, here to see Deon Walker."

( Let's go steal a bad guy )

[ooc: preplayed with the ever delightful age_of_the_geek and whoisalicewhite]

It was hot and muggy and extremely crowded. The final act of the night -- Carrie Underwood -- was taking the stage and the crowd, exhausted but buzzing from a full day in the sun, still managed to let out one hell of a roar.

Eliot, Hardison, and Parker were up high in the back of the stadium, kicking back, in part to get away from the crowds, and in part to give Hardison room to get his eye rolling and and terrible country accents out of his system before he managed to get someone to throw a swing at him.

Again. Throw a swing at him again. Eliot had already finished two fights for Hardison since they got to town, and as much as he enjoyed it, they were trying to keep at least a little bit of a low profile. Country music could have a long memory, and there were still a few hardcore "Craniacs" out there who might recognize his one-hit-wonder persona.

[ooc: for the blonde one, the other one being permissibly modded.]

Like Eliot was going to work a job in Key West without dragging his team out for some fishing? Sure. Right. It wasn't like Hardison could fuss about racist militias on the OPEN OCEAN, after all.

. . . He was waiting for the argument about pirates. Or maybe mosquitos. Or sharks. Whatever, they had a cooler full of beer, a boat to themselves, and an extremely low probability of running into any magic monsters this far from Fandom. Eliot was going to call it a win.

[ooc: for Leveragians and likely slow play.]