There is not much that Bishop remembers of his childhood. Only bits and pieces of fleeting moments that he's not even sure are real.
One memory is of him sprawled out on the kitchen floor, ragdoll limp, with a paper plate of sliced tomatoes on his chest.
Mom's standing at the stove with her back to him, hips swaying to the quiet crackle of Julio Iglesias' voice over the radio. He can never remember her face, which seems odd to him because she's his mother. He can tell by the smell that she's burning the tortillas like she usually does. Later dad will laugh at her and give her a kiss on the temple before eating three of them plain.
Bishop never liked them – he imagines they taste a little like the surface of a grill would, grimy against the roof of his mouth and too heavy in his stomach. He still ate them though, because he didn't want mom to feel bad, because at least she tried.
He picks up a tomato and bites into it, soft flesh splitting between his teeth. Watery pink juice spills down the side of his cheek and he wipes it away with the back of his hand.
There's a water stain on the ceiling that he thinks he used to stare at for hours. It's not one of those round stains that seem to ripple outward with every new spill. It's this wobbly brownish line that sort of runs parallel to the wall, just inches away from making the orange paint bubble like a botched water balloon.
The water stain sort of reminds him of the road he's driving on now; crooked and lined on one side with honey gold oat-grass and with strong oak trees turned bright green with summer on the other.
This place is more open than New York has ever been. He can't tell if the wide open stretch of empty field is beautiful or nauseating but it leaves this little rock lodged between his lungs that sends a jolt of pain through his chest every time he breathes. Without the familiarity of NY, he is lost – the absence of his small but overpriced apartment is making him homesick.
The only thing that remains constant is the 80's rock playing low over the radio, barely audible over the sound of stagnant puddles splitting beneath his tires. He never changes the station, for some reason it would feel like a disservice to just do away with Motley Crue and The Go-Gos so he just keeps it on the same channel and relistens to all the songs he's heard before.
He thinks about calling into the station sometimes and telling them to expand their catalog – to tell them that maybe they should rebrand to something like "80's Rock, and then Some" but he knows they'd just laugh at him and tell him to change the channel. He won't of course, but they'll tell him to.
He spares a glance at the torn bit of an old napkin that's pinned beneath the tab of the open soda can in his cup holder and chews on the damp filter of his cigarette for a moment, thinking. He's got an address scrawled across the off white paper in his own blocky handwriting but it's all smeared from the number of times he's run his thumb over it, like touching it will give him a better sense of direction.
There was a girl at the gas station about half an hour back that gave him directions. She looked sort of gaunt with exhaustion, eyes seeing right through him as she pointed him towards the road he's currently on now. He's beginning to think that maybe she led him astray when he sees a mailbox sprout from the overgrown cluster of grass at the end of an equally overgrown driveway. The numbers 429 are etched into the side of the aluminum box, knife-thin grooves on the surface.
There's a house at the end of the muddy path and Bishop thinks that that is where he must be heading, though he's not sure. He's actually not all that sure of anything at the moment.
If he had to make a list of things he knew, it would be rather short:
1. Never look a dog in the eye. This applies to werewolves and generally anything with canid blood. One wrong glance and you might end up mauled or, if you're lucky streak runs out, dead.
2. How to take the safety off a gun: imperative knowledge in his field but you'd be surprised by the amount of kids who start up here thinking that their guns are just going to aim and shoot for them.
3. The guy he is here to see is named Jasper Harding. That's it. His commanding officer, agent Natalie Donahue, had given him a name and an address and then left him to figure out everything else himself.
4. Ketchup on rice tastes even better when it's raining.
When he pulls over it takes a moment to get out. He stalls – even though he knows that the longer he sits here, the harder it will be to get his car out of the mud – and presses his palms harshly against his thighs like he can reach through them and grab his bones. Tear them out and never walk again, be done with this forsaken job forever.
He's not sure what he'd do with himself after that.
He does not know why he is nervous, he's worked out of state plenty of times – been assigned missions with dangerously vague details. To him this should be no different than any other day on the job. But it's not.
He really isn't sure why it isn't. Maybe it's the thirteen hours he spent commuting from New York to middle-of-nowhere Indiana. The sleep deprivation is finally getting to his head, the pounds of sugary snacks no longer doing their job. He frowns down at the grocery bag of empty Mars Bar wrappers sitting in his floorboard and shakes his head.
Leaving the paranoia behind, he steps out of the car and back into the real world. Mud seeps over the toes of his shoes, nearly suctioning them off as he takes a step forward. The smell of wet tarmac over-takes him almost immediately, sharp and strong, and humidity licks at his scalp, already coaxing sweat from beneath his collar.
Bishop drops his cigarette to the ground and watches it sputter out before stepping forward, muscles tensed and jaw clenched. He could probably go back and pretend he got lost – that would probably be the smarter thing to do.
Then again, if this is his job, he probably isn't a smart man anyways. At least it's exciting.

Up close, the house looks even more run-down than it had before. There, just outside in the mud and muck, Bishop had been able to see the way the ivy twisted brutally beneath the porch, yanking up rusted nails that had probably been there for more years than he'd been alive. When he had stepped on the porch it had felt brittle, weak – like if he put too much weight on one foot, he'd fall straight through.
The inside had been no better: the flowery grey wallpaper was peeling from the wood in spiraling curls and the floors were pale and stripped by the rain, a patch work of deep browns and black against different shades of grey.
It seemed even hotter in here than it had outside. The windows were cracked and shattered, poked through with ivy like nature was trying to knit itself back into the creations of man. Bishop's clothes stuck to his skin uncomfortably, clinging to the muscle between his shoulder blades, the pinprick of heat on his skin.
The house sort of reminds him of the places he used to sleep when he was younger, scrounging up safety in the most dangerous of places whenever he would run from the authorities. There were these old, condemned apartment buildings that always felt five seconds from collapsing – he'd sleep in them some nights, when it was raining or just too cold to huddle in some bar alley.
Bishop peers curiously into a doorway and, as his eyes sweep over the relatively unaffected room, his face hardens into a suspicious glare. With narrowed eyes, he notices just how little damage has come to the room despite the shattered bay window on the far side of the room. Through it, he can see his car idling at the end of the driveway, shiny black in a sea of gold.
Light spills across the floor in splotches, seeming to catch on an iridescent nothings, and Bishop grimaces, all too knowing of the cause.
A glamor. Bishop knows very little about magic, next to nothing actually, but glamor's are common enough that he's encountered more than his fair share. They're easy enough that humans with even the littlest bit of magic in their blood can do them with enough practice.
There's a smell that lingers over the room that he can't quite pinpoint – the familiar burn of magic is there and it's like inhaling cigarette smoke, almost sort of painful. There is another smell though, one that is specific to the castor only. It's sort of airy, without any real backbone to it: it reminds him of fresh air, the type that is cold against the back of your throat when you step outside after a heavy snowfall.
"I'm agent Santiago," he says into the empty room, caution making his words low and stiff. He doesn't enter the room but instead stands in the doorway, hand resting on the grip of the pistol strapped to his hip. "I was sent by the Agency."
There is no sound in return for a moment. Only the quiet whisper of his breathing and the shrill song of cicadas strung up in trees. Inhale slow, exhale slower. After a moment, something akin to a laugh echoes around the room.
"The Agency," a voice says, humored and silvery in tone. It comes from behind the glamor. Bishop glares into the room and the disembodied voice hums quietly. "I expected you sooner."
"Well," Bishop begins, his mouth curling into a displeased frown, "I got lost. This place isn't exactly easy to find."
"That's the point, Mr. Santiago. I do not want to be so easily found that just anybody can knock on my door." A moment of silence. "I should probably introduce myself."
"Yes, that would be appreciated," Bishop says tersely through gritted teeth.
Bishop blinks and suddenly he's not staring at an empty room. The lively green of potted plants spill from tables that line the walls. There is another larger table that sits dead center of the room, dressed with a deep red table cloth that is spattered with potting soil and trimmed leaves. Next to it stands a man, his grin wide and mischievous across his pink lips.
"Bishop Santiago," the man greets, sun catching against the unnaturally white curls of his hair. He looks normal enough, not deformed or terrifying, nothing to be afraid of. Even so, Bishop cannot help the way his eyes glide to the hand trimmers that lay on the table, easy enough to reach and be used as a weapon should his objective decide to greet him in less than hospitably ways. "I'm Jasper Harding, your new partner. Natalie has told me a lot about you."
Bishop's eyebrows pinch together in confusion. He feels like he's being lied too – he's never needed a partner before, why he'd need one now is a mystery to him.
Jasper either ignores or doesn't notice Bishop's confusion when he strides forward, his steps quick and calculated like he has planned where each foot will end up before it touches the ground. Each steady thump of the heel of his faux leather boots against the floor guides him closer to Bishop until he is standing only a few inches away, a curious expression coming across his face.
He has his hands tucked behind his back as he looks up at Bishop, lips pursed. "You have no clue why you're here, do you?"
"I don't know how long you've been around but the Agency tends to be stingy with the details." Bishop's heart beats hard in his chest at the close proximity and he fights to steady it, digging his teeth into the soft flesh of his cheek.
From a distance there was already something inhumanly off about Jasper. Up close, this becomes much more apparent to Bishop.
There is something off about the way he carries himself, like he's floating on his heels – weightless. Practiced regality with the undeniable undertones of bouncy, child-like energy.
He meets Bishop's eyes, teeth bared in a knowing grin. He lacks pupils: the black is replaced with nothing but a pearlescent pool of white that seems to hold the sunlight in greedy palms, reflecting a pastel assortment of colors.
"You are not human." He states the words lamely, as if that much were not obvious.
"You catch on quick. Most of the time people are too afraid of offending me to ask," Jasper says. He takes a step back and his smile softens into something more welcoming. "But no. I am not human. I trust that won't be a problem?"
Define problem, Bishop wants to snap. There is a fine line between working in unison with and being partners with a creature like Jasper. Things go wrong: he's heard the stories. Were-beasts losing their shit and gutting their partners – killing, maiming. He'll be damned if he ends up like that.
For now though, he'll hold his tongue. "It shouldn't be a problem as long as you do your job."
Jasper grimaces. "So you really are the all work, no play type. Nat told me you were but I was hoping you'd at least be sensible."
"I think doing my job and helping people is sensible."
"Not at the cost of-" he waves his hand in the air, searching for the words- "I don't know, your sanity. Personality? If you don't ever indulge, you'll just end up dissatisfied with life."
Bishop pinches the bridge of his nose, mouth pressed into a thin line. Irritation sidles high in his throat, pressing against the back of his tongue but he makes an attempt to push it down.
"No offense but I'm here to work, not talk. I don't exactly need the therapy session you're trying to give me."
"It's not therapy, just advice."
"I'll let you know when I need that too. Let's go." Bishop turns and, before Jasper can continue badgering him, he makes for the front door.
"Wait, wait, wait," he hears Jasper sputter behind him before hurrying to catch up, "I don't even know anything about you! How are we supposed to be partners if I don't know you? Do you even know where we're going?"
Bishop grits his teeth to bite back the rude retort that threatens to spill out and instead says: "We can play twenty-one questions in the car – and I expect you're going to tell me where we're going since you know so much."
Jasper huffs but doesn't contest Bishop's words as they exit the house. Bishop just hopes he doesn't regret this too much.