bakerstreet | A Picture is Worth... Meme.

[A point Eames may not be, but that hardly affects his ability to do research. It's been two weeks since he got the rundown from Cobb, and has a folder of information for him, all gotten from his stint with their mark. He pushes it across the table of the cafe, leaning back in the chair and glancing out at the moist city outside.]

This one's observant, so you're going to need an atmosphere that he wouldn't recognize as fake, possibly with a distraction he's never seen before.

Edited (I fail at HTML) 2012-11-22 17:09 (UTC)

[Sometimes, Eames has found, that force is the better option when logic goes awry. It wasn't hard to knock Arthur out, surprisingly easy in fact, but he was injured and not listening. He had to take matters into his own hands if they were going to do the smart thing and leave, even if it meant abandoning Cobb in the process.

Dom's a big boy, Eames told himself, and would likely repeat verbatim to Arthur should it come to it. He can take care of himself.

At the time, saving his own skin had been more important, and somehow saving his own also meant saving Arthur's. Shot in the leg and bleeding out would be a bitch of a way to go.

But that was hours ago, and since then Eames had stolen a truck, cuffing Arthur in for safe keeping. He tended to the wound when they stopped for gas, tearing up the bottom of his shirt to wrap it and covering his compatriot with the rest of it, just in case anyone got a glimpse inside.

That, and, maybe out of some sense of compassion. Now though? He's driving them through Nevada with his wifebeater sticking to his chest from the heat, his fingers tapping a beat onto the steering wheel.]

[Everything had gone to shit, fast. He remembers fighting with Eames about many things - his injuries, the forger's injuries, whether or not to leave Dom (Arthur's sense of loyalty outweighs his sense of self-preservation sometimes, not often, but Dom is an exception), and then everything went black.

Vaguely aware that he was moving, and not on his own two feet, Arthur struggles back to consciousness. His whole body is rebelling, though, and his heavy eyelids flutter open for a second before slamming shut thanks to the overbearing sunlight. He's nauseous, sore, and has a headache that is bordering on a migraine in terms of pain. And as he tries to sit up he discovers that he's handcuffed to the seat.] The fuck.

[Except that's what he tries to say, but it ends up being a groan and a cough. Arthur may or may not have a few cracked ribs and the sudden shock of pain causes him to cough more until he's dizzy with want of air. By then he's feeling worse, if possible, because he's aware of the heat and the sweat that's drenching him.

When he's able to keep his eyes open he looks over at Eames, scowling so deeply it's sure to give him wrinkles.]

Edited 2012-12-27 22:17 (UTC)

[Eames only glances at Arthur when he hears him wake, a curl of an amused smile as he returns his eyes to the road. He takes the moment to turn the radio up, no longer afraid to wake his slumbering, frustratingly short-tempered point with a little AC/DC.

I'm on a highway to hell~]

Good morning sunshine, how was your rest?

[The other mutants have gotten used to her presence by now, figured out that she's no threat; they're not happy about it, but they don't say anything when they come in for the night and find the two curled up together on his mattress with its one flimsy blanket.

A clicking noise stirs John from his slumber, and he rubs at his eyes wearily, then sits up ramrod-straight when he notices a flame flickering down by his knee. Letting out a quiet growl, he snatches the zippo from her hand.]

Don't touch that.

[No matter how comfortable she got on that mattress, the fact that there were people around who could squish her like a little bug definitely effected her sleep cycle.

Besides, she didn't want to risk him waking up and catch her looking at him, so she thought the lighter would be okay. It was just one flick, that's all. Still, guilt and shame. She looks at him with wide eyes before rolling away a little, sighing.]

I just wanted to see it.

Bliss - [He opens his mouth to try and explain, clenches his hand into a fist around the lighter, then sighs heavily and tucks it back into the pocket of his jeans.] - just don't do it again. Alright?

[He can feel the tension he's caused between them, and it irritates him. Of course a human wouldn't understand that a mutant who can't create fire has to be a little protective of his fuel source. A regular Bic would melt under the force of his flames, and zippos are fucking expensive; this is his only way of defending himself, and he can't stand to see it anyone else's hands.

He lies back down and rolls over to face her back, drawing patterns between her shoulderblades with his fingertip. He's no good at making up with people his temper has pissed off - usually they either die or are left behind. What does he do now?]

[She doesn't have a lot to say, especially when she was placed in a situation that she wasn't on top of. Yes, it was his and that meant that she should have asked first, but that lighter was an extension of him and that meant that she wanted to see it, too. Secrets weren't her forte and he just made her want to touch all of his things now, just to prove a point. She won't though, if only because she wants his trust.

That and his anger worries her.

Naturally, trying to explain this to him would have resulted in more confusion. She wants to reach around and console him; wasn't that an apology? Maybe if she gives in and stops being so stubborn, she'd actually be able to hold it with him there. Maybe. All she knows is that he's touching her, and that's more than the lighter.]

I can't promise that, John.

I don't have to be holding it to control the flame, y'know.

[He's definitely not above making threats to control a situation - in fact, violence is about the only problem-solving skill he knows. Even if they seem to have fallen into some odd sort of relationship, that won't spare her from his temper.]

But if you're laying with me...

[With temper comes persistence, and as she rolls back over to look at him, Bliss raises an eyebrow before lazily rolling her head onto his shoulder. She didn't want to make him angry. This was failing.] I guess I can leave it alone.

I guess so. [His voice makes the statement final, but he tilts his head against hers to take some of the sting out of it.] There's some things you may never understand, Bliss. You might just have to go with them.

[There's a small laugh there; his irony sometimes, it kills her.] I'm working on it. You're a little complicated, you know. It's not like I've met anyone like you.

[Understatement of a lifetime, but she's sneaking her face up to his neck, almost a test to see if he'll let her touch him. She may not be a mutant, but she wanted to understand.] I promise I won't do it again.

[He slowly breaks into a small grin, eyes turned up to the ceiling.] There aren't many people like me.

[Then he turns to try and look at her, but with her face tucked in like that, he can't quite manage it.] What're you up to?

[Her hand stopped moving and she pulled back a little, a sneakingly suspicious look on her face. It was hard not to smirk when she feels like she's caught, but he's asking the impossible of her and a little giggle comes out before she slowly (and it's as slow as can be because, well, they weren't dating-dating, really) cups his jaw in her hand.

Nothing out of the ordinary, at least that's her stance.]

Nothing? [Insert giant grin. This is impossible.] ...Hi.

You're a dork, you know that? [He can't quite fight off a grin of his own, despite his earlier anger, and he wriggles a bit closer to her to speak in a whisper.] Careful. Don't want to wake up the monsters.

[He drops jokes like this now and then, just to gauge her reaction: if she's ever too defensive in her denial of what he's said, then she won't be coming back. But as long as she can roll with them, she's probably still alright.]

Yeah, I know. [It's truth, there's no point in denying it. But the monster thing, that's not quite right; it's like saying gingers had no souls, but.... Sort of more cruel. She nudges his chin with her nose to shake it off.]

I think the tall guy wants me for himself. You better be careful.

[Perfect response. That's his girl.]

Oh, so first it's fire you want, and then it's height. You'll just work your way through all the mutants before you're done, huh?

[She pulls back and gives him a face- it's all a joke, John, but really-] What, are you not going to fight to keep me?

[He shrugs, suddenly unable to meet her eye.] Might be for the best. I don't know how much longer I'm gonna be here.

[That was totally a sensitive and appropriate way to bring up the topic, right?]

[Right, except he's dealing with a teenage girl who doesn't quite have the, well..] Leaving? [Her voice is quiet but the alarm is still there. She's not stupid. They were accomplices, but if he leaves... There's no hiding her feelings about this in her voice.]

Why? No, when?

Whoa, hey, calm down. I don't even know if I'm going yet.

[He sighs, sitting up to pull his lighter back out and grab a handful of flame to play with.]

This guy, Xavier... he found this place and talked to a few of us. It turns out he runs a boarding school for mutants, totally free. No one knows about it except the people involved - to everyone else, it's a normal school. But it's a place to live, and a steady supply of food, and no one will be after me there.

You can see why it's tempting, right?

Oh.

[She's considering this, as it's actually a pretty marvel idea. She doesn't mind where he is now, but considering she has a home to go back to and he could have something better, something with people like him? It's a good idea, and she'd be a bad friend to try and tell him otherwise. Her eyes are on the flame though, and there's a little kick in her heart that tells her that when he goes, it's gonna be someone else's fascination.

She clears her throat and nuzzles up closer to him, her hand moving to play with his hair a little. It was good, and that's all he needed to hear.]

You could go? Maybe try it out. It could be good for you, having free food and all.

You're not gonna get clingy on me and say I should stay? [It's an incredibly arrogant thing to say, yes, but she should be used to that by now. Besides, it's mostly a front - he's unsure about all of this, and he doesn't want his weakness to come through.]

If I got clingy, you'll get more of an ego than you already have.

[Of course she doesn't want him to go, she likes him. He's probably the first person she's ever gotten this comfortable with, but he probably wouldn't want to live with a bunch of vegans and she's got to be fair. Bliss figures he needs something more than a brunette and a mattress, which is why she's gonna play the supportive girlfriend. That's what he deserves. Humans get to step aside, at least one like her. It's enough to make her fidget, but she pulls him a little closer for good measure- she's gonna make sure it counts.]

You gonna miss me, you know... When you go?

[He gives her a bit of a look - that's a risky question to ask him, with his smart mouth and complete refusal to show vulnerability. She's likely to be shot down - almost guaranteed, in fact - and yet she took the chance.

So he just sighs a little, pulling a lock of her hair around his finger and winding it up loosely.]

Yeah, I probably will. This is the longest anyone's stuck around since I've been on my own.

[Then she immediately gets a more customary follow-up:] But I don't care if you're facing cruel and unusual punishment, no one hears that I said that. Got it?

I'm not gonna tell anyone about that. That's just for me, and you know it.

[Whatever it was that they were doing, she was okay with it and had every hope that he wasn't gonna just up and disappear.

Then again, they had entirely different sets of problems and hers were considerably first world in return.

She closed her eyes for another second, took a breath and then pulled him closer, a bit of a nervous yet pleading look in her eyes. ]

I better be careful. If I go around liking you, I'll be gravely disappointed in every other guy I meet.

[A brief pause, then another smile; she's back to being smiley again.] You're leading me to a great upset.

Edited 2012-11-23 00:57 (UTC)

Hey, I've told you plenty of times not to get too attached. It's your own fault. [He's only half-teasing. That look makes him uneasy and a little bit irritated, because he never signed up for this. Not for any kind of relationship, never mind one with a human. He still can't figure out how she wormed her way into his affections so easily.]

Besides, [A little lighter] I thought you were all about not swelling my ego any more?

[Intentionally not swelling his ego was a difficult task and she really did try her best, but there was something about being teased that she liked a little- which was good, considering their difference in attitude.

Besides, she hadn't been looking; it just fell into her lap.]

Oh, oh. Wait- are you complaining?

Swell away. [And his smile shows that he knows just how suggestive that statement is.] Just make sure you're ready to face your creation once you're done.

Edited 2012-11-21 21:39 (UTC)

Edited (because of reasons. also I suck.) 2012-11-22 00:42 (UTC)

[ the italian countryside is much nicer like this he told her when they rented the motorcycle, and it's true. had their budget allowed it he would have snagged something a bit nicer; a convertible porsche or something similarly comfortable that would let the wind blow through their hair. she asked to drive but he just gave her a look and a witty comment about trust having to be regained before he'd put her life in her hands again. the incident is all water under the bridge for both of them, they're agents and know what the job requires (and truly he blamed M for the bad call), but it's nice to have some shared peril to laugh about like old friends when they're trying to blend.

thankfully the motocycle is quiet enough and the road fairly secluded as they travel down the winding road. recon missions are sometimes a bit more laid back than one might think, and though each of them is equipped to the brim with ammo and weaponry it's nice to feel a little ordinary every now and then. he feels her chin rest on his shoulder but keeps his eyes on the roach as he speaks loud enough for her to hear over the wind. ]

Have you been to Italy before?

[ small talk. not his strong suit but he's trying. ]

( if she were any less confident, any less secure in being a good shot and having done the best that she could, the joke might have gotten old, might have stung a little — as it is, she prefers laughing about it to anything else. it's nice to know he has no hard feelings towards her because of it, too.

though he's still not letting her drive, but that was to be expected. worth a try.

so she's on the back of the bike, leaning into his broad back and one arm around him. it feels like a holiday, at least for the time being, despite the weaponry that they carry, despite the mission. right now, it's just a question of getting from a to b, and the road is winding, the scenery beautiful. )

Not this part of it. ( not shouting over the wind so much as turning her head to speak with her mouth close to his ear. ) Rome, Florence, and I've been to Sicily once.

Love Sicily. Beautiful this time of year.

[ the implication we should go sometime is there should she wish to find it, but with all the wind and easiness of the afternoon perhaps she'll miss it. he's relaxed right now, the rigidity he usually has constantly alert and aware of his surroundings is unnecessary for a little while on this italian road in the countryside. even the weapons on them are only precautionary, the worst-case-scenario response that each of them were trained to have from the get go. in a t-shirt and jeans with a pretty you thing on the back of your bike it's hard to feel anything but a little ordinary. ]

You should reconsider field work. [ he pauses, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye to see the reaction before looking back at the road. ] Unless you prefer only tagging along when M wants tabs on me.

[ he's noticed the pattern of late with her comings and goings on his missions and how they coincide with his less than encouraged judgement calls. but eve has proven to be a more than capable colleague and a welcome alternative to Q and inability to help with just about anything. ]

( he's relaxed and it's a noticeable change — or maybe eve is simply closer to the source right now than usual, feeling his muscles tense and shift and relax in his back as she leans against him, rather than only studying his posture from a (relative) distance. either way, she can't help but enjoy herself, this. his company, too. )

Noticed that, did you? ( of course he did. he may look the part of the brawn, but that doesn't mean that bond isn't smart, far from it, and eve isn't likely to forget. ) Maybe I've just not been given the right incentive.

( to be honest, she is rather happy with her current position. it's officially a deskjob, but like now, there are plenty of times when she gets to go out in the field, no matter what her designation. and working with m directly gives her access to a whole new level of information, it helps her understand what is going on much better than she ever did on the level of a field agent, receiving only orders with hardly any explanation at all.

she prefers knowing, always has.

the implication of his words gets filed away, though she doesn't immediately comment. )

Help.

message attachment:

Happy hour?

I don't run rescue missions.

[ he's amused at the thought of any of the desk workers going out on the town, let alone them convincing anyone for the Q branch to go with them. perhaps it was eve's doing (she can be persuasive) or maybe Q's age makes him less threatening to the others. bond knows exactly where they meet, there being only a few bars within walking distance of HQ, and once his debriefing is complete he takes the time to head that direction. ]

Extreme circumstances. Under duress.

[ Q is miserable. usually he timed his exits perfectly, but tonight he'd been distracted looking over an algorithm written by one of his old professors. the lingering group of programmers had used a combination of peer pressure and guilt to persuade him, and an hour later Q found himself attempting to take arms against a sea of drunken agents and by opposing end their bloody drunken raving.

the text to bond is a last effort to distract his fellows long enough to escape. he wouldn't count bond as a friend so much as an ally, but he knows the man would never turn down a drink and an opportunity to see Q humiliated. he's counting on that smug nature as he watches the front door, nodding to james as his initial scan of the bar brings his gaze to their group. ]

[ bond doesn't respond, deciding to let Q squirm some instead as he approaches the bar and gets a decent enough vantage point to scan the place. he takes off his suit coat off and slings it over his forearm, tie already discarded back at the office and top button undone on his shirt. if you're going to come to a pub you might as well look the part.

he waits a moment or two before heading over, greeting the clearly drunk and jovial group of MI6 paper pushers and computer extraordinaires with appropriate greets and a few handshakes. he's well known enough though not so much on an interpersonal level, and he has a report with a few of the female members. in the office it's all business as usual but here he puts on quite the show. ]

You'll have to excuse us.

[ everyone knows what that means; a high ranking member of the organization being pulled away by another means info being exchanged or a drop being done. little do they know when james leads Q to the bar it's just to get him away from his own pain and social suffering. ]

Scotch on the rocks. [ bond gestures about two fingers worth to the bartender, leaning against the polished wooden counter. ] You know I was told by your subordinate that cell was strictly for business purposes.

[ Q willingly follows, happy enough that bond showed up at all. he's less pleased when bond leads him directly to the place he's been trying to avoid. at least drinks aren't being pushed on him. ]

There's a reason they're subordinates.

[ a smirk in bond's direction as his drink is delivered. Q tries to get the bartender's attention and is summarily ignored. ]

How long do you think before they're too drunk to notice I've left?

Is it the same reason you can't stand going to the pub with them?

[ james flaws down the bartender once again, flashing her a pleasant smile. ]

Water, please, and a vodka for yourself.

[ he slides the water over to Q when she brings it over and hands her more than enough cash to cover the drinks. ]

That lot? Probably before they finish the round.

[ if the photo Q sent was any indication, this particular group does not take their drinking so seriously. ]

[ clever marks and complex missions were one thing, but maintaining an ongoing relationship with an ~~informant~~ associate "freelancer" (a skilled one no less that M constantly reminds him to keep happy lest they require his services in the future) can be tricky work at best. the ones affiliated with some organization or government with physical offices, fiscal codes and conduct regulation is one thing, but those that operate on their own agenda are another entirely. it's entertaining at the very least, worth the connection at the best.

eames (pseudonym or surname, he's yet to figure it out) insists on meeting in ibiza and enjoying a vacation on queen's dime. not that ibiza is the lap of luxury; lazing on beaches and in bars most of the day, eating local fair and meetin the local culture is much easier here than in monaco. but bond cannot complain.

they find themselves in a hot tub with some of that local culture and more champagne than they know what to do with when business is finally mentioned. ]

I'd ask you what precisely you do to get so much free time between slipping me intel, but I'm sure I would shudder at the answer.

[ he jests over his champagne glass before taking a sip. a man that kills for a living really has no room to judge his enterprising fellows. ]

Edited 2012-11-22 07:38 (UTC)

[Eames is careful, more careful than he might seem. He's seen far too many good thieves compromised by decisions involving the secret services, with no intention of becoming one himself. Ibiza was more than simply a vaction spot for him, but a safety zone. Should anything go awry with Mr. Bond, well, enough people in this city owed or trusted him to be willing to assist.

He hopes it won't come to that of course; Eames isn't a man inclined towards violence. Violence is more often than not an unnecessary risk.

Bond has been a consistently good connection, though, and Eames hopes to keep their relationship amicable. And if he's spending the coffers of queen and country, well, that's an added bonus. He leans back against the stones of the tub, cool in comparison to the water.]

It's best to leave it to the imagination.

[His words are accompanied by an amused quirk of his lips and eyebrows that lasts for only a moment, before he takes a sip of his champagne.]

How can I help you today, Mr. Bond?

[ no amount of planning in the world could account for the variables that get thrown your way in the field. no matter; it's half the fun of field work anyway when it doesn't put too much of a damper on the outcome. the gala their mark is hosting has left them in this tussle in formal attire, something james is all too familiar with. as he's taking out the second man (with his own knife no less) he steals a look over the even to see how she's holding up in her dior evening gown, though the gun shot from her beretta confirms it before he can get a good look. perhaps she's not the most experienced partner to have but she's a good shot and just about as capable as they come. ]

I thought I'd have to intervene.

[ his remark is teasing though laced with compliment as he lets the last of the henchmen drop to the ground. not a drop of blood on him, no hits to the face, and not even a scuff on his shoes. he fixes his tie, readjusts and buttons his tuxedo jacket and signals for eve to follow him through the door and up the service stairs.

it's a long climb to the top but the electrical maintenance room is the perfect vantage point of the stage. all they have to do is pick off the speaker as he walks to the front and let the mayhem do the rest. assuming they can get out on the pre-planned route they set it's just a matter of waiting for updates on the extraction point from tanner. simple enough. ]

Your shot, Eve. Make it count.

[ he picks up the sniper rifle case he stowed in the room and hands it to her, moving out of the way to give her access to the window. ]

[There's a run in her stocking. It hadn't been there before the fighting had broken out, but she felt the fabric tear underneath her dress when she kneed a man in the groin. Maybe it's a sign that she's not quite as good at this as the perfectly maintained James Bond, but it's invisible to anyone but her under the fabric of her gown. She only feels it against her fingertips when she slips her gun back into the holster on her thigh, her eyes on 007 with a rebuttal in her lips--]

Maybe if you wanted to get in the way again.

[But there's no time for small-talk, especially not with the fact that she just fired a gun. The sound would echo, their estimated time-frame would be cut in half, and she follows after him quickly on high heels. The instant they're in the room she takes the rifle from him, opening the case and beginning to set it up. It's a step-by-step process that is almost instinct at this point, after years of sniper training for the military and a familiarity for the weight that would press against her shoulder. They have to speed up though, the time is ticking.]

I don't take a shot unless it's going to count, it's good practice.

Edited 2012-11-21 23:52 (UTC)

Why don't you come over here and say that, Armster?

[He pauses, suddenly, as if to reconsider his words.]

Then again, I suppose that would be impossible, wouldn't it?

[Trololol.]

Your forebearer had more determination. And a better sense of style. [A fanged, taunting smirk.]

Perhaps so, but it matters not, in the end. You could never hope to do anything beyond wallow in despair in your private little dungeon.

Would you offer to free me, Belmont? To release me upon your lands?

[Richter appears to mull over those words. Maybe even consider them. Then he leans and smirks, tauntingly.]

Never.

Then perhaps you will know the bite of imprisonment yourself. [An animalistic glitter in his eyes.] What a terrible night for a curse.

How is Annette?

[And his eyes narrow to thin slits. He's otherwise still and calm, however.]

Alive and well.

i have no restraint, so take your pick. ♥

Edited (i'm the worst) 2012-11-21 22:37 (UTC)

[ spies and thieves operate very similarly, though their objectives are usually different. their paths often cross without either party realizing it, and it's not until one party or the other catches on to the fact that the woman at the bar is someone you believe you've seen before, in a different place and in a different dress, and they wonder if you're playing the same game that they are.

this is how selina and natasha's paths cross. they separate once natasha realizes that she's looking for a different kind of treasure and selina assures her that she's not going to alert anyone to her objective (these kind of events are always filled with the worst kind of people, or at least the kind of people who don't mind looking the other way while those people do their dirty work, so the idea of them meeting their end sooner than expected doesn't keep her awake at night). they meet again in several parties just like that first one; sometimes both playing the same role, sometimes one playing socialite while the other plays maid.

this time, in her case, it's the socialite; the arm candy to some dim-witted businessman. natasha is not expected (she never is) but selina is unrattled as she lifts a glass from the offered tray and those familiar green eyes are revealed. ]

Thank you.

( q's life is his work, and his work is his life. frankly, he doesn't know any other way of living, and neither has one ever been presented to him. he doesn't have interpersonal relationships beyond the offices of MI6, where men and women older and more experienced than he is address him as sir, as befitting his status as head of the department. the agency always chooses the best, those ready to lay it all on the line for queen and country.

bond's line, not his. he doesn't claim patriotism to be his motivation.

and he certainly doesn't go on holidays. if there are days off to be had, q spends it planted firmly in his apartment, clad in flannel pajamas with a computer in his lap. he doesn't visit the countryside, he doesn't go jet-setting to exotic locales. but moneypenny's insistence ( and she is moneypenny now, after so many months of steady rapport-building ) had been firm, and her methods effective.

everyone at mi6 lives while they have the chance, because in a job like theirs, one has to seize the day where it presents itself. ( they don't tell you about the death rates when you sign up, but everyone knows ).

q sits in the passenger side seat. he doesn't drive. he takes the tube every morning and evening without fail, looking for all the world like any other university student in his cardigans and plaid pants. there's a tablet in lap, blinking lights and numbers that keeps him connected with all of his various departmental duties - but for now, he's looking out the window instead. )

You never mentioned where it was we were going, exactly.

( but he knows, naturally. he's got a gps system accurate to ten metres hooked up to a free-standing network. but perhaps, for the sake of small-talk, he can pretend that he doesn't. )

( at times, eve understands the appeal of pajamas and staying home — there are some days when she'd like nothing better than just that, some good music and some tea and she's all set. unlike q, she would get bored of it rather quickly if not for travelling, if not for the job being challenging — not only mentally, though now that she works as m's aide, it is less physical than the field work she used to do.

like q, her work is her life and vice-versa.

which really, is all the reason she needs to know that they both require a holiday. the real challenge had been getting him to go along, but eve is nothing if not persuasive if she wants to be. )

No, I didn't. ( a small smile. ) I promise it'll have wifi, so you won't have to go without for even just the weekend.

( q is quiet in the wake of the news that sends shockwaves throughout the whole of mi6. the death of m should not have come as a surprise to anyone: it isn't as if people in their positions lead long, safe lives. he is on the periphery of death all the time. perhaps he is not out there in the field dealing it himself, but his weapons are used to kill. q is very aware of this fact. but if he's going to be honest, m's death had shaken him as well. everyone dies. even tough old intelligence masters, even legends.

he owes a lot to m, who gave him his first job. m, who chose him above plenty of other older candidates despite the scrunity that q himself experienced upon meeting the likes of bond. q takes a lot of credit for his appointment, of course he does. but he isn't naive enough to think that it was all him - in the labyrinth of political power-plays of mi6, people can be stuck for years without advancing. they just aren't as good as he is.

the news goes around the office and he watches from his spot behind his computer. there are agents that he has never seen crack an expression before looking visibly distraught. m used to be a polarizing figure, but she had been in office so long that most had more or less developed a sort of loyalty to her that was astonishing to watch. q's gaze is drawn towards moneypenny in particular. he watches her dip her head, one hand covering her face, hair wreathing her expression in shadow.

he watches, and wonders if he should say something. but really, what would he say? something about the inevitability of death? it won't help. )

[I understand a thing or two about being a woman in a man's world.

That hadn't been the first thing M had ever said to Eve, but it was what stuck. She remembers it like yesterday, the memory coming into focus as the news sinks in. Standing in uniform, being scrutinized, being told to report to her for a debriefing. Being told she had what it took to work for mi6, that power should always be in the hands of women, that men were just too emotional for it.

As right or wrong as M might have been, Eve can feel the emotions pressing against her throat and eyes, like a blade to the skin. It wasn't enough to get her to cry ( soldier's don't cry, and neither does secret service ), but she had to turn her face away, keep the tense twitch of her lip and the mourning in her brow hidden, if only for a moment. She has to be strong, for M16 and for Mallory--he would hear the news through her after all.

Now though, she simply needs a moment.]

( the odds are 11 million to 1 when it comes to dying because of a commercial aircraft crash. q knows this. q understands this so very well - he runs the numbers through his head like a cadence, a steady stream like the binary on his computer screens. everything is so much neater when encapsulated in neat schematics and blueprints. he knows how planes work ( he's designed a few of them in the past for mi6 ) but that comes with the flipside of knowing exactly what might break in excruciating, minute detail.

it isn't a rational thing. he doesn't claim it to be a rational fear. he doesn't talk about it much, actually. what q does instead is cope in the very best ways that he can. he slides the window shade down the moment he gets seated. he keeps his seat-belt on and pressing tight against his chest. he grips the armrests tight enough for his fingers to turn white and begin to ache. every slight amount of turbulence, every bump and rattle of the plane is met with an internal shudder.

this is the closest bond is going to come to seeing him without his proud, soft-spoken composure. and he can just tell that there's a smirk on the agent's face, that smug bastard. he's far too senior to be doing this. the plane rattles again, precariously - the pilot's voice is heard dimly on the intercom, to tell them that it's fine, just a little bit of routine turbulence. his message is met with deaf ears, as half of the people on this plane were asleep.

q doesn't know how anyone could sleep under these conditions. the plane rumbles again-- )

Shit.

( q's grip on the armrests tighten - sorry, bond. he's taken yours as well. the muscles in his neck are as taut as any bowstring, so tense that it's painful. )

[ james is used to private charters, small luxury planes with every convenience of a hotel right there and personally catered to him and whatever other members of mi6 he happens to be travelling with. these expenses are rarely spared when operations are important enough to have them on a mission that doesn't require immersion; this is routine exchange, practically security detail for bond as he accompanies Q to a rendezvous of sorts. so bond has taken to blaming the quartermaster for their being in first class on their way to istanbul. eve mentioned something about it possibly subduing his phobia, 'small charters crash much more often than commercial planes,' she said, as it that would make the whole thing any less ridiculous.

of course, seeing Q squirm has more than made up for the inconvenience. ]

Don't over do it, there will be no armrest left for the landing.

[ he speaks softly, all the other overhead lights around them off, as not to disturb the others. Q is entirely right in assuming there's a smirk on his face and he doesn't bother hiding his amusement in his comment.

the flight attendant steps over a few moments later with a tray and hands off two drinks to him. he smiles at her, dripping with charm and a lingering gaze (shared, of course) before she walks away to help another guest. bond places one of the glasses, a martini naturally, in front of Q before taking a sip of his own. Q had been mid-freakout when she came around the first time taking orders so bond took the liberty. ]

You need this much more than I do.

( as much as he appreciates the extra leg room, q would be at the very back of the plane if he'd had a choice about it. he's done the math. he knows that the probability of survival is on average twenty percent higher for passengers sitting near the rear. if flying was the absolute last resort, then he would have chosen their seats strategically. but m's orders are orders, and q has no doubt that bond played a role in getting them in the seats that they had now.

so here they are, both with hidden resentments about this whole affair that don't quite bubble to the surface. q, for his part, is finding it rather hard to equip himself with witty retorts to bond's patronizing remarks. it's a regular thing for a man who conflates youth with incompetence, and q is a young man with too much to prove - and even in these subtle ways, he tries to show bond up. tries to assert that he's someone to be taken seriously, because nobody does. )

Let's hope the rest of this contraption is sturdier than its armrests.

( he ends up muttering it within a stream of steady swear words under his breath, words that should sound odd coming from his posh british accent. q has ended up looking at his knees for the most part, anything to keep from reminding him that he is currently at 30,000 feet above the ground.

perhaps the martini that bond places in front of him is a necessary distraction as well, even if he isn't much of a drinker. q is proud of how steady his hands are when he reaches for the glass - there's only a mild tremor that runs through them as he raises the glass to his lips. such a bitter drink, dry and cool. such a classic, pretentious drink, and maybe it is indeed true what they say about being able to judge a man by the drink he orders.

frankly, he wouldn't know. )

Shaken, not stirred. I've read your file.

Edited 2012-11-22 04:20 (UTC)

[ bond doesn't bloody care where the optimum location for plane crash is or how much Q grips at the chair and tosses in his seat; if he's flying to turkey on a red eye flight playing security guard to an aviophobic he is going to be comfortable. M didn't need to know about the upgrade being processed and he's sure moneypenny will keep that detail hush-hush when it pops up on the expense report.

but the resentment is much easier to imbibe with a dry martini so Q should could his blessings there at least. ]

So much for passing that eval.

[ it's an off-handed remark stated more for his own sake than Q's but ripe with that same bemusement from earlier. something tells him an espionage career, even as a genius computer scientist, would require an excess of ravel by air. he respects Q enough not to water him reach for his drink or comment on the shake to his hand despite seeing it perfectly out of his periph. if he drinks then maybe the tenseness will pass, sleep will follow and they wont both be zombies tomorrow morning when they touch down in turkey. ]

It's a little more complicated. [ substitutions, mixing vodka and gin, adding a twist; why he had taken to liking the drink was a distant memory but it stuck. ] What don't they put in the files these days.

You forget: I can be virtually everywhere and anywhere at once without stepping foot on a plane. But by all means, add sitting in a chair to your list of skills as a field agent.

( q will defend his reluctance to fly to whatever extent it takes to convince people that it isn't a detriment to his job. after all, that's the beauty of technology, isn't it? he can do everything he needs to do in his pajamas as long as he has access to a half-decent laptop. he comes into the office to oversee his department, and sometimes for the access he has to technology that isn't at home. either way, nothing he does should ever entail him needing to travel beyond a simple tube ride here and there.

in fact, he's not even sure why he's here at all, and not some lower-ranked member of q division. what's the point of being the bloody quartermaster if he can't assign these things to his subordinates? it's that thought, and the newest bit of turbulence that causes to drain the rest of the martini glass without really dwelling on the taste. it's this high level of mental stress that is causing him to be a bit pricklier with his retorts than he usually is. he's usually able to be a bit more subtle about it. unless there's boasting involved. )

They're very thorough about it all. Meticulous. You'd be surprised.

( and bond's file is the thickest of all of them, barring those that he doesn't have the clearance to read, and they are few and far between. )

alt if that's too cruel:

( some people are not cut out for field work. q is one of them. theoretically, it seems as if he should be - nobody knows the inner workings of his own weapons better than he does. he knows about angles and force, a knowledge that seems like it should lend itself to aim and accuracy. but there's a difference between knowledge and ability, and q's mind is far too fast for his body, in the end. he isn't the type to react on instinct, to know when to duck and when to shoot. he's very happy at the mi6 offices, underground or not, thank you.

but a mission of national security arises, and long-range communication systems will no longer cut it. they are too easily hacked or otherwise circumvented. it was decided then, that q would accompany bond to set up near the location and guide him from there.

what this had to do with jumping out of a fucking plane, q couldn't fathom. but he couldn't. he absolutely could not - the bay doors were opening, the wind was rushing into his face, and he's frozen. he cannot do this, it isn't physically possible, he's going to die. they're both going to die. he's strapped to james, and the regulation parachute is going to fail. the statistics are there. 0.1% is still a chance, no matter how slim it is. )

We are not doing this --

( he finds himself having to yell over the rushing winds, an unusual instance for q in which he actually has to raise his voice. )

Bond, I am not doing this!

[ Well, dear Quartermaster, you're not dropping into what's exactly considered friendly territory or airspace. And apparently, on top of having an unsuitable place to land, you're on your last warning from the regulators of this airspace and stand to be shot at very soon. It's now or never.

Bond had heard that Q was afraid of flying. That wasn't uncommon. But the man had willingly signed on, knowing what he was in for. It made 007 briefly wonder just how much Mallory had to offer him to do it.

That he gets cold feet at the moment of truth isn't surprising to James either. It's actually understandable. It's one thing to have the balls to put your faith in a hulking, metal object hurling itself a mile above the ground, and quite another to sack up and jump out of it.

Like most things in his job, Bond finds that the best solution for this sort of thing is to not allow himself to think about it at all.

He doesn't think about how this man strapped to him might be edging toward a stroke, doesn't let himself think about what he'd do if that chute doesn't open. He doesn't think about how he's jumping from a height that's impossible to survive on his own, or that he's dragging someone down with him.

Instead, he just turns them so they're facing the inside of the plane again, like he's going to let them walk back in and set Q free after all.

Except he doesn't. He walks backward and wraps an arm around the other man, checking the bonds tying them together while simultaneously dragging him back to the edge. Soon enough, the wind is just going to snatch them both and they'll have no more choice in the matter. ]

Just shut your eyes and think of England.

[ At least he's got the benefit of being able to speak directly into Q's ear. ]

( the thing about q's sarcastic tendencies is that it requires certain preconditions safety, for one. a lack of immediate physical injury or death. james bond might be the type to quip in the face of danger, but q's using his efforts to concentrate on actually breathing properly and not hyperventilating in the face of 18,000 feet separating them from the ground. the rest of his concentration is going towards swearing as prolifically as he possibly can within the span of seconds, his nails digging deep into the skin of his clenched hands. this is mad. this is absolutely, without a doubt the most insane thing he's ever encountered in his life, and q has seen the range of them at mi6.

nothing mallory could ever offer him would be worth this experience. and if q hadn't spent so long cultivating a rank and persona at the agency, it would occur to him to quit on the spot. right now, before the wind takes them off the edge --

too late.

well. at least he doesn't scream.

one minute he's staring down at the dirty floor of the plane, and the next there was suddenly nothing beneath his feet. q kicked even despite himself, something of a reflexive reaction of someone searching for solid ground to stand on. his panicked mind - already so much faster than that of the average person - runs at a thousand miles an hour, taking in everything even though he would rather not.

shut your eyes and think of england.

if he were in a position to reply to that stunningly condescending statement, he would have. as it was, q's only thoughts were concentrated on the parachute, which he was not in control of - and objectively, he can probably appreciate that as a choice for the better. even if he's inwardly screaming at bond to pull the goddamn cord already.

the free-fall seems to go slower than it has the right to. )

[ This is the man who told the one torturing his bollocks that he had an itch down there anyway. These quips are his coping mechanism. He'd rather give up the breath for something condescending than take one in for fear. Not that he, honestly, faults Q for doing so.

The wind takes them and, just like that, it's out of James Bond's hands and ability to control. It's happening now and that's all there is to it, no going back. He relaxes and falls. There's nothing but sky above, endless blue that burns into sapphire. It's day, but here, Bond can make out the stars.

Air whistles by his ears, obstructive but not overpowering. For a moment, it feels like falling, but then it's very much like riding a cushion. For about ten seconds, he takes in the view above, then rolls them into a few lazy barrel rolls before, finally, rolling to face the ground below. One hand reaches to check the ripcords, both the main and back-up, but he doesn't pull either. They've only been in free-fall for about twenty seconds, and this isn't Bond's first dive, to say the least. They've got almost another twenty or so before he'll pull the chute, and that'd be merciful to Q. Bond hasn't decided if he's going to yet. Is there anything petty currently standing between them? ]

( there's always something petty standing between them, at any given point in time. bond is a unique case in the sense that q is able to talk to him in a way that he cannot with the others at mi6. he retains a blanket sense of professionalism, but can't help but slip in a few sarcastic remarks here and there in their verbal sparring matches. this is especially a habit whenever q has access to bond's earpiece in a mission setting, where his ongoing commentary never does seem to stop.

but it would take an exceedingly petty man to hold that against him in a time like this.

which means that q is probably out of luck.

there's something about this that's cliche, almost. facing your fears. god only knows that his reluctance to fly has been common knowledge in mi6 - you can't lie to a bunch of liars, no matter how discreet q had tried to keep it. m is trying to get him to get over this particular hurdle, but it's not going to work like that. he can't simply turn it on and off, can't ignore the ground hurtling rapidly up to them with each passing second, like something out of a nightmare. he's trying to keep his calm, trying to take deep breaths, but it simply isn't working.

and finally, when he can take no more of this, he leans in to speak into bond's ear. )

Pull. the damn. cord.

( q isn't yelling above the wind any more. he's trying not to be shrill. he's trying to be firm about it because he really fucking needs bond to pull those ripcords right this second. )

[ He really does like trying to tell Bond how to do his job and critiquing his techniques, despite not being in the field himself, doesn't he? Possibly just as much as Bond himself enjoys finding good excuses to get his equipment broken or otherwise scuffed. Of course, overall, there is to be a professionalism because they both know the work is serious, but Q is a bit like the new dog in the pack that Bond tends to weave in and out of; naturally, he's got to sniff and test him before he decides whether or not it's worth hiking his leg. The same is true for Mallory and Moneypenny, but then, testing Mallory must be a more subtle art and Moneypenny happens to be an attractive woman (despite the fact she shot him). Out of the three new associates Bond has, it's Q he can be the most blatant about the (more subconscious than not) fact that he has a damned hard time accepting that he both craves and fears ties of permanence. There's also the fact that Bond is more or less solely responsible for Q's protection on this mission, and getting him used to the feel of terror right away is probably the best and kindest thing to do.

Of course, honesty at any level comes with its price. Which is to say, Bond is inclined to be as much of an arse as possible without actually hurting anyone. ]

Tried already!

[ The couple of seconds of letting that sink in is enough for James to enjoy the feel of spreading his arms and pretending as if he were being carried along by this pocket of air rather than falling, coasting over the jungle below. He can see the white blossom of a chute below them - their cargo that had been kicked out of the plane before they went.

He does, indeed, pull the damn cord. The parachute opens on the first one, and then there's the feel of the harness catching at them both. The ground stops coming up so quickly and they level into sitting positions both. It's like the swing set Q never wanted, his waist more or less cradled between Bond's thighs. ]

My mistake - I just needed to put my back into it. Still alive? I'd really hate to be stuck with dead weight.

( people look at q and they make certain assumptions based on his youth in a division full of old men, based on the way he speaks and the way he dresses. he's the new dog in an elite, ruthless pack. there isn't anyone currently working at mi6 who hasn't sized him up in some way or another. the difference is that even despite their disagreements, q actually respects bond in a way. in his own, nebulous way. he wants to prove himself to him. he wants to impress him. and that's exactly how silva got into their system. q's been paying for that incident ever since, trying to rebuild his credibility. he feels the weight of that expectation acutely.

but he understands why they bicker so often. in fact, he almost enjoys it.

what he doesn't enjoy is the three or four seconds of absolute panic that runs through him when bond shouts those two words that q had been secretly dreading all along. he tries to crane his neck to see the emergency chute, but he can't reach either of them, and the ground is rushing up to them so quickly, and -- )

You absolute bloody bastard.

( congratulations, bond, for being the first person to crack that facade of professionalism in his entire tenure at mi6. working relationships be damned, he's still trying to keep his heart from feeling like it's going to burst out of his chest. )

[ In turn, Bond laughs like the bloody bastard he is, a snort that dissolves into a throaty chuckle. ]

Oh, don't be so dramatic. You're alright. Besides, shouldn't you have been prepared for this sort of view after looking at all those satellite photos? Or is it really not the same at all?

[ It had been cold and kind of drizzley earlier, down on the streets as they were departing from what must have been the world's most boring, long, and dull meeting ever possibly concocted to work on international cooperation. It just happened to be in New York City, and he just happened to be one of the mediators between SHIELD and MI6, possibly because this was his conference room, and then they'd insisted he stay, so that the other country could get a sense of with whom they would be agreeing to work.

That was during the meeting. This was after the meeting, when he'd realised she was staying across town and that weather - so cold, rainy, windy, new to the city at night - he just couldn't. No hotels, please, plenty of room here, right? Completely. Stay here, Eve, can I call you Eve? My name's Tony, I don't..... Think they actually let us introduce ourselves. So it's nice to meet you, Eve. There's a pool on the top top floor, past R&D. I don't know, you look, you look like you could be a swimmer. Go have fun with it if you want, if you don't just, this is your room here, mine's way down that way, don't worry. Whatever you'd like.

And he wandered down to his workshop to get some of the muck of the meeting out of his system. Get his brain functioning again. Within about twenty minutes, he'd forgotten she was even in the building with him at all. ]

( Eve isn't quite certain whether Tony Stark is present at the meeting because SHIELD wants to show off how brilliant their people are (if so, MI6 has Q who is considerably better behaved, thank you), as a warning or as a test of how well the British deal with Yanks, well.

Either way, Eve has plenty of experience in wrangling men with egos. That he offers for her to stay is not surprising, exactly, because she knows how she looks and that men like Tony Stark — men like James Bond, too — like to surround themselves with beautiful women like they're collector's pieces.

When he wanders off, she readjusts her opinion of him somewhat, and it isn't until it's dark outside and she has indeed made a few rounds in the pool that she goes to search for her host. )

Mr Stark?

[ Hey, so nobody knows why he had to be there, that's fun. That's comforting. (Also hey, he can be well behaved when he feels like it. It's just not often that he feels like it. Obviously.) Next time he's just going to tell somebody no, instead of being some sort of international cooperation test subject.

Even if she was not entirely a negative sight to see. Yes, beautiful women, it's nice to be surrounded by them, particularly when there's not really any reason not to be, although seriously, he feels like those were pretty good reasons for asking her to bunk over.

Is it dark outside now he didn't notice. That's the beauty of... single-minded focus, or something. Tinted windows. It's the beauty of something he has, anyway. He leans around the diagram he was looking at when he hears the unfamiliar voice, straightening a little when it's placed to the only-somewhat-less-unfamiliar face. ]

Oh, hey, what's up? How's the pool? Warm enough?

( hopefully someone knows. eve assumes that fury does — he certainly didn't seem the type to do anything without a reason, and she can respect that.

his reasons to ask her to stay over were indeed good, and that is why she accepted his offer. both that of staying over and that of the pool, though she'll admit the latter also because as good as eve is at paperwork, as much as she likes -- and excels at -- the diplomatic and administrative parts, she'd loved the physical aspects of field work as well, and having lost that, she sometimes needs another outlet for her energy.

swimming works. )

It's a very nice pool, thank you. ( his informality is both amusing and vaguely vexing; she's still trying to get the measure of him. )

[ No, someone definitely knows. Tony's just really not sure he actually cares enough about it to bother going around and annoying people until he gets an answer that seems like it's not just placating.

Hey, Tony gets that. He's fantastic at just staying here, in his workshop, never really having to go out and actually play with things, fight off bad guys, make people swoon; he could do all of that from right here, even, but there's a whole side of life and yourself that doesn't get met that way. You've got to get up and out and into things, or you're just not plugged in to all there is in a life.

He nods a little bit, sort of already checking back in to what he was doing - he didn't really stop thinking about it when she came in, it's just more for a moment there was a more immediate puzzle, and now that it seems that one's taken care of, his mind is trying to return to the previous one. ] Bored, lost, or hungry?

( eve likes knowing, but she isn't going to pester anyone just to find out why one tony stark was present at this meeting. there's a time and a place, and an art to knowing when to push for more information and when it isn't worth it.

it's amusing to see, though she only recognises it because she's seen q do it a million times or more: multitasking to some extent, but the majority of attention on whatever he's working on. it's almost the same expression, just on a wholly different face. seems some things are simply universal, no matter what the country or the agency. )

Curious.

[ Tony is more working on this project than he is paying attention to her, but the reply pulls him back out enough to peer around the hologram again at her before collapsing it to a smaller version, getting rid of a layer or two, and moving back to work maybe on one or two problems at a time rather than all of them at once, as he had been. ]

About?

( that looks a little fancier than she is used to; q isn't necessarily one for theatrics. )

A lot of things, Mr Stark. But for the time being, your relationship with SHIELD.

[ meanwhile tony is a full tilt diva

Also, this conversation? Suddenly got a lot less interesting. ] What about it?

( which is interesting to note. both the diva aspect, and how his interest wanes immediately. )

Why do you work with them, Mr Stark? ( what's the motivation? he doesn't much seem the type. )

[ please, you're talking about a relationship here that he was almost bullied into, even if... he did half the bullying himself. ]

I build most of their cool shit. And they prevent me from having to sit in front of congress again, so, I think it's a pretty square deal. No congress, all I have to do is fight a few bad guys here and there.

I followed those proceedings. ( q had made snide comments about the flashiness of tony's actions, she remembers fondly. )

Oh yeah? What'd you think? I'm right, right? Boring as hell. So, I don't do those anymore, I get to be Iron Man without any more F16 fatalities. Square deal all around. So, there you go.

Hearings like that aren't supposed to be exciting. ( she understands the necessity for them, but she does agree that they're boring. ) Fair enough.

Well, they're doing a good job living up to their own expectations then. Curiosity sated or were you really just bored underneath all of that? [ sliding things, still working, headtilt at the schematics for a moment before he thinks of something else and plugs in the numbers to let the new simulation run, turning back to her as it gets started. ]

A little of both. ( with a smile, not quite self-deprecating. he's given her a piece in the puzzle that is his relationship with shield, and she's slotted it into place. it's not an interrogation, though, so she doesn't press on. )

What are you doing?

I, am working on radiation safety. Although that one [ vague point to another image ] is an alternate anesthetic device. Bunny-trails, and why concentrate on one thing when a threesome is more interesting anyway.

( He reminds her so much of Q — except older, more self-assured, and with a wider area of interest. )

I don't suppose you've ever met our Quartermaster?

[ So basically, like Q, but better in every way, right. ]

You only have one? He must be busy.

( Certainly no more humble. )

Head of the department.

[ who has the time for that sort of thing ]

Haven't met him.

No, I imagine so. He doesn't like flying.

He doesn't know what he's missing.

It's not that amazing, to be frank.

You're not doing it right.

Most people do, then, according to you?

Things wrong? Yeah. After a while you learn to accept it.

I meant flying particularly.

As far as I'm aware, the majority of people don't actually fly often enough for me to have realistic preconceived notions about their habits. I'm just saying, there are definitely things one can do to make the experience more fun than others. And then there's ways to make it singularly unpleasant.

[ 'I'll have that drink now', he'd said, and sure, who wouldn't want a drink after all of that, even then in the moment Tony hadn't quite been able to conceal his amusement, destroying half the city, definitely destroying more than half of Tony's tower - oddly enough just the part that he seemed to live in, anyway; all the floors with offices on them were unscratched, as though there'd been some weird aura surrounding the building. And hey, the big fuck-you-I'll-make-a-multidimensional-bridge-if-I-feel-like-it beam had been on top of the roof; maybe they'd actually left it alone on purpose. He didn't know. He also didn't really care, because now was apparently when they were going to have the drink instead - and great, whooppee, fantastic - and he was well into his third or fourth or whatever by this point, looking at all the plastic - not from Loki's attack, this was just new work being done, weird things happen when the top ten floors are all R&D and you're the chief exec in both the R and D divisions. There was a... You know, these things can happen, they do happen, they're wont to happen, in that they actually want to happen, so a small, you know, microcosm that blinks in and out of existence isn't really anything to worry about. Not aside from the resulting backlash that happens to the three floors directly above and below the incident. ]

Back so soon? Pressing matters to get to or do they just not have Scotch in Asgard?

[ He's got that hungry look about him, feral, predatory. Not as lean physically as he was before, but the impression of it yet lingers. Loki moves through Tony's open concept like he owns it, not paying any mind as yet to the mortal, only looking, assessing, then smiling faintly at the window he threw Tony out of (only months? A year?) before, a dry chuckle at the back of his throat. ] Memories.

[ He turns, sharp green eyes fixing on Tony, head tilted. Thor is an alien Space Viking, yes, but Loki gives off the impression of Otherness where his brother is an over grown frat boy. ] If you thought Asgard would hold me long, then you're not half so clever as you think. [ But he is alert, and likewise waiting for that drink, Stark. ]

[ Tony's watching him carefully, trying to look like he isn't doing just that, but in turn, not trying too hard. Loki probably knows already and honestly, dumb people don't watch Loki carefully. Dead people don't watch Loki carefully.

Especially when Loki looks hungry, power running through that frame of his, similar enough to before for Tony to still call it lean, but there's something different, and he can't tell if it's a projection of his ego making him seem different or some sort of aura of crazy, but either way, Tony's watching him carefully.

Memories. That seems safe. ]

Asgard doesn't seem to hold anybody very long. Break a bridge forever, you guys show back up again in a few months, no problem. Send you back with an all-powerful cube, you show up again in my house - does Asgard even have doors or walls or are you all just living somewhere tropical style, with the walls rolled up to the roof and the open air?

[ And hey, what the hell, he was drinking anyway, he might as well get another glass out and pour a couple fingers. Come and get it, Loki. ]

Oh no, no, no. [He all but clucked his tongue at Tony, moving towards him with less swagger and more feral grace, a hunting cat about to strike. He takes the drink, studies it for a moment, then inhales before taking a sip.

And pulls a face.] What false offering is this? Tch. Give me yours. [And he's holding his glass out to you, wanting what you're drinking to see if it is better than this swill you've given him. Loki ever preferred sweet meads, after all.]

Asgard is effectively cut off unless one has means other than the Bifrost to travel. That would be Odin with the Tesseract, and myself with all the various pathways between the worlds that the Aesir are too foolish and stupid to realize the value of. [Just a bit bitter. It's hard being the smartest guy in the room, okay?]

[ Well, sure, be creepy, see if he cares.

And that's cool, just swipe his drink, no worries. He'd poured you a glass of what he was drinking anyway, so you can have his and he'll just slide the one he poured for you back over to himself and drink that instead. No skin off his face. Back. Nose. Whatever. Good luck there, man.

Hey, Tony is intimately aware of this whole 'hard being the smartest guy in the room' thing, okay, no need to feel misunderstood there. ]

So, you can come back and forth, willy-nilly, as you please, and they have massive engineering feats to accomplish before any of them can reliably travel back and forth like you? That's fun. That'll be super fun.

[And he's taking a drink out of this glass and- no, still that burn. No, he's not even grateful, because you are an upstart human that will be gone in a blink and he is Loki of Asgard. Though ... not technically at the moment.

Trifles.

But he's smiling at your assessment, that horrible, manic smile.] Oh, your assessment of the situation is apt. They said you were the most intelligent of the lot. [That could almost be a compliment if the line weren't delivered in the tone of giving praise to a small, slow child who just managed to use the toilet instead of wetting himself.]

He'll be coming for your world, too. [Abruptly as Loki looks out over the still recovering Manhattan skyline, then back over his shoulder at Tony.] Oops.

[ Oh hey, the guy doesn't like the same thing that was in the other glass he already knew he didn't like, shocking. Moore booze for Tony, yay! ]

Did they? Who's 'they'? I need to know how smug to feel, you know, if it was like, gods, then I'll be unbearable for a couple of weeks, but if it was like, you know, a couple of fifth graders, I don't even need to bother with the pride at all.

[ wait, what. you're mean, he's getting tipsy and you're going to ruin it with statements like that. ] Who is?

Facbook poll. [He says entirely deadpan. Take that in for a moment. Loki knows about the internet. Loki knows about social networking.]

Oh. [A very false mou of sympathy in Tony's direction.] The owner of that army you and yours so successfully defeated. [But he's keeping the booze. And taking another drink.]

I imagine he'll be ever so interested to meet you in person, now.

That's actually... [ horrifying. what are you doing on facebook. not that he's on facebook, aside from fan pages, anyway. he can sort of see you on myspace, but facebook is terrifyingly mundane and banal and the sort of realism that even 'reality shows' don't want to see. so. stop. ] ...actually worse than fifth graders. No more settling on 'intelligent'.

[ what is a mou. the only thing i can find is a legal agreement thing and it's driving me crazy. ]

Most people are. It's a highlight.

[A brief pursing of the lips as though in displeasure.]

Is it? And yet there are those on this internet site that welcome my rule as their overlord and king. [Clint showed him how to use it. And my but these supposed pagans are coming in handy for something, if not a bit of amusement at the expense of the Avengers.] How embarrassing that not all of your fellows share the ideals you fought so hard for. [Smug, smug.]

This is not a meeting that will end well for any but him. I sought to rule, he seeks the death of all things. [And if his tone is a bit flat, a bit bitter, well, to be expected.] Tell me, Man of Iron, how could you hope to win against a force such as that?

There are also those on that internet site that think Cheetos should be their own food group because you need flour, milk, and eggs to make them. Really, anything facebook agrees on needs to be fact-checked, just so you know. [ Clint is a dick who doesn't even seem to care if people wind up injured so long as they look cool in the process. ]

And who was that, again? I'm pretty sure the funeral homes might appreciate the heads-up. [ Not to mention, without telling him who it is, a threat like 'the death of all things' really doesn't hold much weight, in his opinion. Sounds sort of like a four-to-seven year old. ]

[A wan smile. Dark, tired around the edges, but it could be for show, of course.] There are more things in this universe than even of Asgard's imagining. Imagine a creature who sought the death of all things, who gave me [A pale hand innocently resting over his own heart] an army.

An army which a planet heretofore unknown and unworthy proved itself against. Now you are a prize to slay in worship of the delusions of this creature. However mad things are, Man of Iron, fear the power behind them. [And he's serious now, invading your personal space.] The enemy of my enemy can be a useful ally.

[ He rules effectively very little out when it comes to Loki. Experience is a bitch of a teacher but damn if it isn't helpful. ] Yeah, still questioning that particular judgement call. It doesn't really lend towards an expectancy for logic. [ Not that you have to be logical to be a pain in the ass. ]

There's seriously no way to win after you're put on a map, is there? [ Why are you even this close this isn't necessary he'll stand his ground out of principle but really he prefers a much larger berth in terms of personal space bubbles than this. ] It's supposed to be 'friend', but I guess updated that could work. Being your friend is probably more lethal than being your ally, anyway.

[The last time he was this close, he threw you out of a window. And as though the thought crosses his mind a second time, he looks out once more over the skyline. Then back, expression amused.] Is it? My mistake in your colloquial phrasings, but ally is more apt. Though you've initiated no alarm, what would your colleagues think of your consorting with the enemy. [It's Loki that steps away first, moving across the room without invitation or hint that he cares or needs one.]

There is no way to win except to win. And as you've allowed Thor to simply leave with the only means of power great enough to defend- [He spreads his hands and gives a sympathetic half smile as though he truly understands and empathizes with your plight.

He does not.]

Learning the native tongue is hard - especially when you don't actually have to. I've found that personal tutors are the way to go. If nothing else, you have a good time. [ He does his level best not to look somewhat relieved, because while he's pretty good at masking some of his larger emotions - when totally necessary, anyway - he is still not quite on actual-god level, and hey, defenestrate me once, I get vaguely lucky with a nearby suit; defenestrate me twice, NYC cops have a new crime scene. ] They'd probably just think I was crazy, or maybe even the best of things, that it was purposeful. What about your 'ally', consorting with their enemy? Do they see any of this?

[ Well hey screw you too. ] That is like, that's not even strategy. It's not like having it here was any better - it was attracting its own level of unwanted attention. Speaking of unwanted attention, why are you here?

Ah, but the tongue and the customs, such is the way of one seeking to rule, is it not? [Is that lingering ambition talking, or is he taunting to evoke a reaction. Maybe a bit of both. Though he might bitterly admit that his ambition was neigh forcibly ejected by the green beast.]

And why might it be purposeful? [He can hazard a guess as to why, he thinks.

At least he's doing you the courtesy of not pretending, mortal.] I am sure my former ally knows of my failure and I am rather not to throw myself on his mercy. [A sour expression, disdain, a little grim dread.] A moot point now, but that is the way of things. And even more of a reason to see the value in what I offer- a temporary cessation of hostilities for the greater threat looming.

Tongue, anyway. [ It's probably both. It feels like both, but he's not quite engaged enough to react that easily. Besides, all of his own ruling fantasies and plans have to do with taking control of the Presidency via some sort of war, but still claiming to be advocating peace and justice and other random American shit. (He is happily American. Very much so; but you don't have to be outside the faction to notice the negatives.) Anyway. ]

Otherwise it'd be pretty stupid to let you in my house, right? [ That's not the only reason, but it is the most obvious. Particularly after you got so close. ]

Yeah, that sounds like a great guy to base current allegiances on. What sort of cessation? [ Because, okay, that's actually marginally worth listening to. ]

[And he's actually laughing at that.] Let me into your house. [The laughter subsides on a soft chuckle and the mercurial switch of mood is so fast it might cause whiplash to anyone else.

The laughter is gone like it had never been, the eyes are narrowed and everything in his body is tense.] Allies are slim when one is falling through space. There is no time, Man of Iron, nothing to stop the descent, only falling until the slightest hope is crushed, until anything other than falling is a distant thought. [He's stalking towards you again, angrily.] Did Thor tell you the circumstances? Or did, like before, he appear, toss around a bit of lightning and you were all once more tripping eagerly over each other and yourselves to grovel at his feet.

[Oh, it's very clear in his face that he's not all there.] He threw me into that void. When I was rightfully king of the people who stole me from another race. A race they despise and vilified. I was nothing but a tool of my father. A disappointment and second best, without use and so easily discarded.

[Once it's out there, it's hard to reign himself back in, like a sickness, but he forces his mind right, one can see the emotions physically shift to something more controlled.] Putting our mutual abilities towards the destruction of the coming threat rather than yours at me and mine at ruling your little world.

[ Yeah yeah, whatever. 'Let' was used very loosely.

Also you're fucking creepy, dude. js. The attention he receives from Tony increases substantially even while superficially appearing to totally not do that at all, listening to Loki's words, watching the look in his eyes, and suddenly remembering pretty clearly that, oh, right, this is a god. A fucking batshit bag of cats crazy god, of illusions and shit. Riiiiight, that god.

And okay, cool, you reign your little childhood trauma in a bit more and hopefully Tony can just sort of... ignore it, and definitely not see some personal parallels, and jump onto the other part of the conversation like a man with a brand new viagra prescription. ]

Wait, I'm the ally? Or, an ally. In the loosest sense of the word. Us fighting this threat?

An ally. Or the lynchpin between myself and an alliance with your little band of mortals. [See? He was already reigning himself in by not describing said band of mortals as 'useless' or 'petty.' He can be a team player. All right. No he can't, but at this point, he needs a distraction and that would be you and yours.]

Better you than any of the others with even less in their heads. [Look at that, almost a compliment. He's practically winning friends and influencing people.]

[ That was super nice of him, yeah. Like it's not weird at all being sort of marginally complimented by Loki. ]

Is there like some sort of understanding that there won't be stereotypical immediate bad-guy in-fighting right after?

[ He rubbed at his face a little bit, focusing his eyes again and trying to rub some sort of extra energy into his brain from the frictional contact on the front of his head. Even for him, this was scraping the bottom of the barrel, pushing that whole 'sleep, what's that?' and 'food is for babies i'll eat when i'm dead' mentality that didn't really show up when he was in the middle of a good kick in as much as it seemed to do well enough to explain to people afterwards that he just, honestly didn't realize he was hungry and tired until other people started to point it out for him, and that was just annoying, because he hadn't felt it until right then and now he did and he was still working so just go back upstairs and stop talking, mute, go, thank you, bye.

But this had been maybe three or four days and he was tired and hungry and maybe he could turn on a light or two and stop feverishly working on whatever it was he was working on down here in the dark like he was some sort of -- he couldn't even finish the metaphor. Whatever. This was dumb.

Tony straightened up, which JARVIS took as an unsaid cue to raise the lights again, not all the way, but to illuminate enough for someone who was ostensibly about to become ambulatory after staying in one dark place for a very long time, and -- ] How long have you been there?

[ It's almost interesting, he thinks, to watch Tony work. He isn't as empty-headed as most and when he's silent, the hatred seems to ebb away to a simple dull white noise. It still exists, but it's easier to ignore in favor of Tony Stark's intelligence. Something that, of course, would be a grander thing to praise and exploit if only his alignment were switched.

A slow sort of smile curls on Loki's lips, one that holds secrets and his own form of mischief. One can never be sure what that contains now since Loki has become wiser to the goings-on around him. Near silent steps as he rounds closer, but not too close. ]

Long enough. [ Matter-of-factly; as if that is all he'll say. But then, ] Is it wise to leave yourself so vulnerable, Stark? And here I had thought you were smarter than that.

[ Great, so Mr. Likes to be Annoying and Chaotic likes to just stand there watching him work, fantastic. Or something. Whatever. Now that he knows that he's here, he can pay more attention to him.

But, potentially not enough attention, apparently. ]

I'm in my house. Generally one's allowed to be a little off-guard within their house. Do I need to be less vulnerable right now? Should I get the drywall or the glass people on the line for maintenance? Or are we just talking here?

[ As far as he was concerned, this was all that any emergency winter weather kit needed - nice blanket, and some irish hot chocolate. Perfect, right? They'd even stumbled across a little shack that was working well enough. One of them had come back in with firewood - at this point he genuinely didn't remember if it had been him who went out and got it or if she had, he was just cold, trying to keep his core warm because it and his feet always got cold first and one was a little more life-threatening than the other, and burying himself into the cushions as far as he could with his half of the blanket managed to work. The water - it had been snow - was coming to a boil, and he could already almost smell the concoction, feel the warmth of the hot-hot-too-hot-mug in his hands as he waited for it to cool - oh it was going to be lovely.

In the meanwhile, he was so cold though that he wasn't even really talking that much. Nothing to be annoying about when you're just not paying attention to it, or when you have a hole in your chest right to your heart and you're starting to slow down because you don't feel cold from the outside so much as you feel it from the inside radiating outwards. He pushes in deeper, curls up more, watches the water as best as he can from this little cocoon he's making. ]

[Leave it to Tony to bring the 'necessary' supplies. Cocoa and Irish creme certainly beats, the shitty instant coffee that's in her pack. No complaints from her side, even after she went out for the firewood. It was clear to her at the time that it would be easier for both of them if she did it. So, she left him there to try to get warm under the blankets, wandered out to the wood pile, dug out a few of the more dry pieces she could find and brought them back in to start a fire.

Once that was done, she did what any good Russian trained assassin would do, went on a quick perimeter check and left the man to do the cooking. Now that she's sure everything is as secure as a remote, nearly run down shack can be she takes a seat on the end of the couch and pulls her damp boots off, before she tucks her feet under her and curls up on the opposite end of the couch.

If it weren't for the fact that she can tell he's struggling with the cold, she might almost be amused by the way he's nestled down in the blanket with basically only his face showing. For now though, she's concerned, more for the fact that she's not going to want to have to write the incident report if he doesn't make it than for any other reason-

really.]

[ What.

He'd be a little happier about her presence again if she were going to be a little closer, although some selfish part of him is dancing still, at the idea of not being stuck all the way out here by himself. His armor is over in the corner, needing repairs, and he's having a hard time reaching out to stoke the fire properly, hiding the shiver as well as he can from the woman he's just remembered ran around outside for like, half an hour - maybe it was three, his sense of time is a little off - and now seems to be perfectly okay on the other end of the couch.

Maybe he'll at least try and strike up conversation. He should have by now anyway. ]

Nothing out there?

[What?

She'd move closer, but she'd rather that she's at least passably warm before she does so, it would be counter-productive to try to assist in warming him if her body and hands are still icy cold from outside.

She stokes the fire and picks up the battered pot when the water boils, his hands are shaking too much for him to do it on his own- though, scaling water would probably solve one problem and create another.

Natasha pours the hot liquid in the mugs and mixes them before handing one back to him and setting it firmly in his hands. She takes her own and settles back against the couch, this time a bit closer to him. She's a bitch, but she's not heartless.

Finally, she answers his question having spent the space between it while she tends to everything and him.]

Nothing, we should be fine.

[She's not sure if the little smile she offers is reassuring or possibly terrifying, but it's the thought that counts right?]

[ Yes, okay, freezing and burning at the same time would make for a very very whiny Tony Stark, just putting that out there right now. The main reason he hasn't been almost intolerable for complaining so far is because he's trying to seem like there's less of a potential issue than there is. Because... He does that.

Tony watches this process - because what else does he have to do right now - and mumbles a thanks when she hands him the mug. ]

Fine, from whatever's outside, at least. [ It's sort of... both? She's uniquely talented like that. ] Mildly comforting. Do you need more blanket or something?

[Of course he is, and she knows that, she pats his leg and gives a little shake of her head.]

No. I'm too cold from outside, I need to warm up a little, especially my hands before I crawl under the blanket with you.

[That is one of her many special talents isn't it? As well, as survival in brutally cold conditions. Russian winters aren't known for their... kindness.]

Do you require more body heat?

[ oh okay cool so she is going to, he was starting to think she was just going to stay over there, or maybe she was like somehow impervious to the cold, like that was just some russian thing she could do innately or something ]

I wouldn't really object to it. How are you seriously just sitting there?

[Well, it's equal parts training and stubbornness, honestly. She's cold, but he's colder.]

Through the force of sheer will.

[She sets her mug down on the floor and shifts over to snuggle up to Tony, and pull the blanket around her.]

Once your finished with your cup, I'll see what I can do.

[A pause.]

We could disrobe, body heat for warmth is most effective when nude and under the blanket.

[Reaching down she picks up her mug and takes a drink, before meeting his eyes. And there it is, that smile again. Making it difficult to tell if she's serious or not.]

[ He sips at his drink while he keeps watching her carefully, because it's always better to watch her carefully. Very carefully.

And then what. He seriously can't tell if she's being serious or not, and he doesn't really have the faculty right now to sit there and work it out. ]

Are you serious or are you just screwing with me?

I'm perfectly serious.

[Yes. Even her tone leaves it difficult to determine her actual intent. She takes another drink from her mug, watching him.

She is of course getting a touch of enjoyment from this, she always has had an odd sense of comedic timing.]

I'm almost finished, if you are, I'll get out of these clothes and take care of you.

Edited 2012-11-23 05:16 (UTC)

[ He's still drinking from his mug - it's really quite hot but that's both nice in itself, combating the intense cold creeping within him, and it's something he's just not paying much attention to anyway, since she's being... very something. He can't tell what it is just yet, but it's a lot of whatever it is.

He's also not going to touch his own clothes until he sees her start to mess with hers - this feels a lot like some sort of hazing thing, like the rest of the team is going to pop out, 'Gotcha!' except this isn't actually high school and there's no reason for his imagination to be doing things like that to him aside from the fact that it apparently just hates him. Right now, he sort of hates it a little bit too. ]

Won't take long. Just a little more to go. [ Sip, sip, drink. ]

[She finishes her mug and sets it down on the floor again, following the move with a stretch of her back, before she stands. Tugging the zipper on her suit she drags it down slowly, exposing the creamy flesh beneath.

Either she's going to take this all the way or make him think she is, and do so very convincingly as right now her hand is moving up to push the garment from her shoulders letting it fall to gather at her hips.

What is modesty? Glancing over at him again she raises a brow, and asks.]

Ready yet?

[ ............o.. okay. sure. that was a series of events he was expecting to happen, sure. totally. He follows the trail of the zipper, then the descent of the garment, eyes taking in as much as possible about what was just revealed to the cold winter air.

Those eyes snap back up to her when she speaks again. ]

Uhhh. Yeah. Look, all gone. Totally ready. What am I doing again? Taking things off is just going to be colder. I'm sort of ... against the cold, right now. Mostly.

[She smirks, a little curl of her lips, and unfastens her belt setting it off to the side.

Sitting down again she tilts her head at him.]

For the short term, yes, it will be colder. However, I assure you that once I get under the blanket with you, the cold will not be an issue any longer.

[ stare. ]

Seriously, are you being serious, or just like, hazing, or what, I really can't... Tell, it's a little disconcerting. [ But he's also fucking freezing and hey you know what if he gets naked under this blanket and she was joking and he starts to like, pass out from the cold, that's her problem to deal with, right?

...Yay? ] Okay. [ It's like he answered his own question and didn't tell her the question or the thought process involved. Maybe he's already too cold, or is that just normal? Regardless, he lets moderately less shaking hands go at his shirt, pulling it up over his head. ]

[Just... don't drool.. Okay?]

Stark, do I seriously look like I'm just toying with you.

[Ha! That probably isn't helping anything. But to make her point, once his shirt is off she stands again, shimmies out of the rest of the suit and steps out of it.

There you go, Tony. Naked. And it's clearly cold, if the goosebumps that rise along her flesh and her perfectly peaked nipples weren't an indication.]

Pants as well, if you don't mind, make it quick I'd like to minimize your exposure as much as possible.

...No. [ but that's what makes it seem like she's messing with him most of all!!!!

also really if you wanted him to do something quickly you shouldn't have suddenly become like at least 50% more distracting. there's a moment, a moment, maybe another mo-- okay right he's supposed to be doing something. there's some fumbling under the blanket before he gets irritated and flings it off to the side a little bit - his hands are still not cooperating that well and getting the button and the fly taken care of while he wasn't looking at them was harder than he was expecting. but, that done, with one more quick glance up at her - because really. really? - he shucks off the pants as well.

and is now freezing, jesus, can he make a grab for the blanket, or ]

[She doesn't give him time to even make a play for the blanket before she's stretched out and press against him. Her chest to his, she reaches up and pulls the blanket down over them, kicking it carefully with her feet to cover them completely.

She's sorry, but her skin is a little cooler than she might have liked, but she can't exactly blame him for the extra time it took to get to the necessary state of undress. Between cold fingers and distraction.]

There. Things should heat up now.

[ uhm

uhm

holy god?? what

he swallows once because hey wow that's some fantasy that's happening like right now or something, sure, and she is a little cool, but that's fine, since most of his blood is rushing to the surface of his skin anyway and yeah she's right, things will heat up. it's great that she's stopped moving her legs around, getting the blanket in place. he appreciates the effort, and it was totally necessary, but he'd almost just as soon she not really. move. anymore. ]

Idea you've used a lot?

I have on a few occasions, yes.

[When she speaks her breath is warm on his neck. Her arms, one tucked under her the other over his body. She situates herself so that her feet are over his, offering every tiny bit of contact she can. It's intimate in the sense that she cares enough to do what she can to make him more comfortable.

And at the same time, not really making as big an effort to not make him uncomfortable with the way she slides her body against his to make whatever adjustments that need to be made.

Thankfully, they have the shack and the couch. A bed would have been equally acceptable, as apposed to digging a whole in the snow. Another survival trick, that while works effectively is no where near as comfortable.]

[ It's a comforting thing to know that he was already shivering before, so whatever he's doing right now is probably still totally related to that and not anything she happens to be doing right now. While she isn't as warm as she could be, she's still infinitely better than what he had going on before, all swaddled in the blanket by himself like he was, and he really can't help the way he flattens and reaches for her, rises up to meet her where necessary, trying to eke out every single last bit of contact she's offering, like a starving man lying on a table of food. Or... some better way for that metaphor to go. ]

Good survival skills. [ God, there's a little actual warmth happening, he's far too happy about that. ] Thank you.

[The shivering doesn't bother her, whether it be shivering from the cold, or possible trembling in an effort to do whatever - like controlling his body's natural response to proximity and nudity. She's comfortable enough with herself, and the fact that he's going to get closer once he relaxes a little and realizes that it's helping.

She moves the leg that's on top, sliding it up the outside of his legs and then back down, repeating the movement to create the same frictional warmth effect that she has going on with her hand on his back.

That tiny smile finds it's way to her lips again and she gives a tiny shrug of her shoulders, which in turn moves her chest against his.]

Siberian winters leave you little choice than to have excellent survival skills.

[A nod is all the acknowledgement she gives to the thanks. Good to know that just just had to get you naked to stimulate coherent conversation, even if it is minimal. She won't admit it, but his previous silence was a bit disconcerting.]

This little shack is luxurious compared to some of the places I've had to use this method.

[She rests her cheek against his.]

You're starting to feel warmer, and without a draft in here, it can only get better...

Edited (What is spelling?) 2012-11-23 17:54 (UTC)

[ It's probably like, 90% from the cold. Maybe 80%. Okay, maybe 65%, but that's my final offer.

It's not really going to get any better with her moving around like that either, just saying. He can't really tell whether or not he should be getting closer or backing off, so he just stays where he is for the moment, appreciating the warmth, feeling himself start to get back up to par and thaw out a little. Actually, for that matter, he's just realized: ] That's not too cold, right, the reactor, right on your... skin like that. You don't have to.

[ Ehh, whatever. If it was cold and bothering her he retroactively assumes she would have mentioned something. ] Well, those sound like stories that ought to be shared with the rest of the class.

[ Oh okay that works too. ] Better, or warmer?

[65% sounds reasonable, not even going to haggle.

It's like...she's trying to make this as awkward as possible for him, only in all honesty she's really not. She is simply trying to make sure he gets nice an warm, because whether she'd say so or not, having some sort of company is better than being alone in the cold.

She shakes her head, the reactor is cool against her skin, but it like everything else should warm as time goes on.]

It's fine. I don't mind. [Which basically translates into she wants to, so stop worrying about it, because if she didn't you'd probably be alone and still freezing. It's okay that your flustered, Tony, just... breathe and try not to be have too much like a scared animal. She might just eat you up.]

Perhaps.

[Though, for now that's all she says on the subject. Moving her head to rest on the arm of sofa, so that she might look at him, she offers a little smile.]

I suppose that depends, on what you might consider better.

[The offer might be there, if he can figure out the right way to approach it. She stills her leg, and uses her foot to simply rub the back of his thigh, the hand previously occupied with warming his back switches to a slower more lazy movement while she watches him.]

Better would certainly be warmer, but warmer... might not qualify as better.

[ kind. and he does sort of feel like that's the thing that's happening here, but honestly even with the erotic aspect of her movements he just feels like he's thawing out and getting warmer and coming back to himself and he isn't about to object based on something that honestly, he doesn't really have that much of a problem with. Nudity? Please. Granted, at the moment really his objection is to her, and his inability to account for her motives, and the fact that he knows how goddamn dangerous she is at any single given moment in time. And he's so vulnerable at the moment. So very. ]

Ah. Cool. Good, I mean. Good.

[ He looks back over at her, mostly. Considering. ]

Better's good. It seems the option most worth choosing, at any rate. I think the leg was warmer.

[The sexual aspect of their current situation is, in part, relative to survival. She'd be more dangerous if she thought that his capacity to survive was compromised, at which point she would probably not even try. At this point though, she sees fit to do what needs to be done to keep his body temperature up. And if that means more than just some suggestive touching, then it's your lucky day, Tony.

In that same respect, vulnerability is relative to his warmth. Once he's warmed up enough to process what is going on he'll be back to normal again and probably won't even be think twice about what is going on. Or at the very least that's how she rationalizes things.

She shifts against him, pressing in closer in all the right places, and slides her foot down his leg again, then back up resting it on his hip and hold him to her. Molded against him, her hand drifting down his side. Her expression with the almost fond softness to it, might suggest a coy sort of innocence, if he didn't know her as well as he does.

A long moment passes from the time he finishes speaking to the time her fingers make the slow sweep back up along his rips, before moving to rest on his cheek, her eyes search his briefly before she moves, lips brushing his lightly at first, feeling him out before sealing against his. Gentle fingers coax along his jaw in an effort to relax and open him up to her.

She takes her time, with carefully exploring tongue, not too much but enough of a fleeting taste and light touch to his to be an invitation for more should he choose to take it. Then when she breaks the kiss, she gives his bottom lip teasing nibble and smiles, whispering.]

Better?

[ She presses in closer and he does his best to resolutely not move in reaction to that at all, even though he'd dearly like to - and probably clearly like to, given the utter lack of response he has to her movements there. He just can't seem to get around the Danger, Will Robinson, Danger aspect of being in this situation with her in general. He trusts her not to kill him (unless it will save the lives of a few dozen civilians). He trusts her to be good at what she does, and knows she won't talk about it later. There are things he has faith in her about. They exist. His current buck-naked proximity to her own similar state and proximity is sadly, not one of these times when his faith is all that clear.

His own arms are either being used as a pillow for his head, or are sort of behind him, resting on his own hip, because touching her is still an 'ehhh' area. But as that hand of hers slides up his ribs - ooh, ticklish, ahh - and up to his cheek, his own hand somewhat tentatively, smoothly, quickly slides forward to rest on her own hip, so very, very close to his own right now. Little steps. Carefully made.

Tony wasn't really expecting to be kissed but he can't say he's surprised by it with the high levels of innuendo in the air between them. He allows her the time to feel him out - in all honesty, he loves being feeled out, or explored; loves opening up slowly, incrementally, to people like that - opens to let her explore, only darting towards her own mouth once or twice to see what she'll do but mostly allowing a slow acquaintance.

And nnnnn the nibble. God. He's trying not to react physically to all of this but he's tired, and cold, and she's going things like that, and he's seriously been awake too long and he's exhausted but not that much and in all honesty a little bit more and he won't be able to prevent himself from it. And she'll know. She'll definitely know, all pressed up along him like that. ]

It's a good start. Are you still cold? Should I try for you now?

[Things could be worse. They could be trapped in some Siberian shit hole with nothing at all to keep them warm, but pure will and flimsy hope. This could have been not so many years ago when her survival was paramount over anyone else's. She's not the same as she once was, she's better, more compassionate and there are time, yes, that she wonders if that is better, but she made her choices. For the most part she's content with them. He should, additionally, be grateful it's her, and not someone else like perhaps Barton, who would probably never dream of putting himself in a position like this. She's almost sure he'd rather die than risk possibly being caught naked with Tony.

So there's that.

Dear god, he's ticklish? That is humorous, if she were felling in a more playful mood she might exploit that weakness a little, but for now she files the knowledge away for a later date- in case there is a later date. If things go well, there could be a later date, maybe. By well, obviously, that would mean they didn't die, of course.

She's easy going and considerate of his trepidation, sympathetic even, she knows she's not the easiest person to get along with, and that at times she can come across as cold and frightening. Allowing him his careful exploration she doesn't hold it against him that he's being cautious, hell she actually sort of applauds him for it. She would definitely wonder what was going on if he dove in head long.

Mmmthere see? He touched her and his hand didn't melt off, or get amputated cleanly by some weapon she had hidden somewhere best left to the imagination. Her skin is soft and warm-ish, under his hand. To her he feels at least a few degrees warmer than she does, which is reassuring, since she's more used to being cold, and more able to handle it.

She wets her lips, gazing back at him with bright eyes and an expression that is equal parts relief and interest.]

Good. I'm fine, but if you wish to try I'm sure I could always be better.

[And so it seems, 'better' has become the comfortable choice of words for whatever it is that is going on here. Funny how that works out.]

[ In his opinion, this feels quite a lot like some sort of Siberian-esque shit hole with nothing but a flimsy blanket and pure determination to stay warm. He doesn't have nearly the same sorts of experiences she does with cold - his cold was in the middle of a desert, which, while still hilariously cold, almost can't be on par with a Siberian anything by sheer virtue of longitude. But still. It's pretty cold. And it's cool, because he almost trusts Clint in this kind of situation even less than her, which is a strange thing to think about.

Shut up, he can't help it. Most people are. He thinks. It seems like it anyway. You'd better not try and use that against him or he'll... figure out some sort of mildly irritating comeback that will hopefully in itself not be found worthy of retaliation. So there.

More often than not, Tony does run a little hot, so that makes sense, but it just means that he tends to feel temperature differences a little faster. Generally it's heat that annoys him more than cold, but this kind of cold? This is a little more drastic than just a chilly room, and it's much harder to deal with for someone who is accustomed almost solely to carefully climate controlled indoor areas. He'd probably climate control a beach if he could figure out a way to feasibly do it. Soft and warm-ish are good, but having finally touched her, there's a small barrier that's fallen, and his hand moves up and down a bit to try and do for her what she was doing for him. Frictional warmth just to get things going.

And that reply gets a bit of a narrowed look - not deeply so, just the kind that accompanies someone who is weighing options and tracking a mental chain-of-events and doesn't typically do much to suppress their facial expression in the process.

But, better. Better he can do. Better's easy; he's got a reputation for better in both senses of the word here, so hopefully better should be quite doable. It's not too many moments before he's made a decision - really, there's only the one choice here anyway, let's be honest - and he moves to close the gap between them again, such as it is. Kissing is generally a good place to get things started from, and while he doesn't go at it with as much brashness as he normally might, there's still some experience at hand in the calmer, cautionary approach. His turn to explore a little more, more deeply acquainting himself with her movements, hand sliding over her hip and around her back by habit, staying close. ]

[They'll have to take a vacation there. Show him what happens when you get dumb and eat the snow instead of melting it down for water. He can even have his own snow bank coffin. Sounds like a good time. They should do that next time. Clint can be pretty scary when he wants to be, she doesn't blame him at all there.

She's not. But then again she's not like most people, in any number of ways. She may have been... at one time, but she isn't now. But please she welcomes any thing you might come up with, and if, in fact, it is worthy, she'll even let it stand at that.

It's a deep all over cold that settles in your bones. It's the sort of cold that lingers long after the fire is burning and the room is warm. It stays with you, making everything difficult. She knows. She knows this sort of cold well. And ohyes.. that is nice... it's not enough, but it's a start, and maybe that's simply the human contact, the knowledge that despite what worries him about her he's open to at least trying. Whatever it is, his hand feels so very nice, and warm- for the most part.

She studies his face, he has, for as long as she's known him, displayed a good part of what he was thinking for everyone to see. It's honest, where sometimes the man himself isn't. She can appreciate that.

She likes better, she really does. She matches his pace, easy and careful, letting him feel her out, because she can give just as easily as she can take. Her hand, first gently on his cheek, then curling around the back of his head, fingers stroking through his hair. The other works it's way out from under her, the tips of her fingers brush feather light and teasing across his lower belly.]

[ no that doesn't sound like how he likes to spend his vacations at all, actually, no wonder you seem so angry all the time, you have a backwards concept of vacations and stuff, they're supposed to be fun and nice, unless you're camping or at disneyanything in which case you have taken a vacation for the express purpose of making the rest of your life seem way more bearable in comparison

She really isn't, but it's that aspect to her that makes her... really interesting, and all the stereotypical 'good at her job', 'exceptional', 'unique', yadda yadda. There are ways that most of the people on the team are unlike most people, but in her case it seems like a different set of unlikes than some of the others who overlap a bit more.

Of course he's open to trying - he's oblivious and a dick but he's not actually a terrible person who would make someone else freeze because they worried him. (This is a mild overreaction because neither one of them would be on a team of superheroes if they actually distrusted each other that much. Right?)

That's encouraging, the hands, and the skin and muscles below her fingertips twitch and contract accordingly - not much, but the teasing and the temperature are enough to react to. And he gets a little more comfortable, a little more insistent, tries to get a little closer because yes, warmth, in multiple manners, and either one is always a good thing in his opinion, mostly. On her back, his hand pulls her towards him, fingers splayed and tips adding pressure, before returning to their somewhat distracted up and down. ]

[She... would not do well at Disneyanywhatever... No, not at all. All those happy people, the costumes. It might end up the Disneyanywhatever Massacre. Mickey Mouse's head displayed on the wall of the Enchanted Castle as a warning for anyone who ever comes near that god awful happy place again.

But then again that could be fun~

(One would like to hope that they wouldn't be on a team of anything if they didn't at least have some measure of trust between them. Hell, she even waited to the absolute last second to close the portal, because she just knew he'd make it back. So, regardless of the exterior she presents, and yes she has issues with trust, but she's wouldn't be here if she didn't care on some level.)

Hmm.. closer is better. Closer is warmer, and lovely. She hums soft and approving, as she adjusts herself against him, closer. Closer, because he's warmer and he's asking her too. The leg she has thrown over his hip, hooks him more tightly against her. Every brush of his fingers on his back is oddly warming, partly for the simplest reason, and partly because they're a whispering little reminder that there is so much more going on here.

Maybe, just maybe this is one of those things she might have thought about on a few occasions since they've known each other. Then again, maybe not, but either way they're here now and she can't think of any good reason not to. If he can, he's welcome to stop them.]

[ .....no no she is categorically not allowed to ever set foot in any disneyanything. Ever.

Closer is quite better, he agrees. Closer is warmer, and closer is approving, and closer is tighter, and mmmm, tighter is so much better. His fingers are still moving, palm smoothing over skin, adding warmth, fingers sliding across it, tips pressing in and pulling her to him still. The arm he's basically just been lying on up to now he pulls out a bit between them, sliding it down around her hip on the cushions and meeting the skin there, trying to see if there's a place where her curves don't quite meet the cushions that he can slide it through further. If not, he can always find something else to do with it. He'll have to be creative though, the choice between up or down when you start near the navel is quite difficult.

Well, he's... him, so it isn't as though he hasn't considered it before either. Considered it when she was Natalie, still considered it after she became Natasha, even more after he got a glimpse of how she was out in the battlefield. She's quite agile. Nubile. But it wasn't something he'd ever thought would go anywhere at least until they seemed to be able to have a decent conversation about something innocuous, like.... Pizza. Or Steve, without it feeling like some sort of Halo minefield sparring area. So, no, he doesn't really have any particular inclination to stop, not now that she's shown off how warm she is, and what a good kisser she is, and he doesn't want to move away awkwardly into the cold with the start of a boner because that just seems like it would be several shades of disappointing and unsatisfying. ]

[Likely for the best.

An easy move in for another kiss, a touch more urgent and just a little more forceful, her hand sliding down his stomach, passed coarse curls to curl around his definitely not soft cock. She follows the careful grip with a twist of her hips, pushing him down from the top so she settles over him. Laid stretched out over him, she lifts her hip just enough to make room for her hand to slide up and down his length.

If there was any doubt at all of intentions, she sure as fuck hope she's cleared those up. Now, it's a matter of deciding if he intends to stay like this, which, while acceptable, will possible at some point find her having to break the skin to skin contact and sit up a little straighter. Should he be inclined to flip them, she won't argue, it might, in fact, prove to be a preferable solution to that pesky needing to stay warm issue.

However, at the moment she's inclined to stay just like she is, because between his dick and her, is her hand and while it's not exactly the best form of stimulation, she's fully capable of making it work, to a point.

Inhaling a breath, a little gasp, as she breaks off the kiss, she looks down at him, her hair framing her face, her eyes moving over his face with interest, taking cues and watching for any signs of disapproval. He has her attention just as much as she probably has his right now.

Let the games begin! Because we all know how easy it is to answer questions and be given commands when a deadly assassin has your cock in her hand.]

Wanna give me a hand or would you rather I do all the work myself?

[There you go, now he knows what he can do with the hand he was trying to think of a creative use for.]

[ Excellent, urgent, forceful, both very good things and wow okay that was a little faster than he was expecting. Tony rolls onto his back fairly easily, owing to obvious convincing things underway and the sheer pliability that comes with a, being sort of surprised, and b, being pretty pliable in these situations anyway.

And yes, this is quite clear now, thank you, no need to worry. It's pretty likely that whenever things do get a little more underway and she shows signs of sitting up that he will flip them over if only to prevent that space from being required. Everything's working just fine right now though, yes, and the look on his face is yet again - or, still, rather - fairly indicative of his feelings in the moment on things. His eyes are a little wider, a little darker, lips parted since the kiss ended, and watching her very intently, because on the one hand there's something incredibly hot about all of that, and on the other that whole deadly-assassin-with-my-cock thing that's been mentioned.

The second it takes before he starts moving to make use of that direction is either from lag courtesy of stimulation, renewal of mild cautiousness at the shift in the situation, or because he's trying to figure out what to do first. For the moment, he slides it from her hip to her stomach, hand stretching over as much of it as he can, briefly, before curving up over her ribs and then back down her side through the length of her thigh. Hand settling on top, he lets it fall to the inside a bit more as he moves it back proximally. ]

[All the better a little pliability can go a long way. Even more so when staring in the face of someone like her. She's every bit as deadly as she is gentle and careful. And while its best not think about the things these hands have done, it's also just as easy to find ones self in a simple sort of awe that hands like hers can be so soft. A tender caress of more than capable hand, taking in all the tell-tale cues she gets from everything she can take in of his. His expression. Patterns of breathing. The subtle changes in his pulse. The shift in the entire atmosphere between them.

No. No. Don't renew caution now please don't. Because his hand is warm as it skims over her skin, it's warm enough to raise goosebumps along the flesh it's come in contact with and make the muscles in her stomach jump with anticipation Jim the path just a head of it. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it slightly. His hand on her thigh, drifting along it.

Don't be afraid of her. She's just a woman who wants him. Her body reaction in much the same way as his, though she ignores the sound of her own heart to focus on just him. So don't worry. Not when his fingers are so deliciously close. Please don't. Okay? Just let go.

She moves her leg.. Just enough, and eager little move to open up. To give a little more room, and hey, maybe it's a little needy, but fuck it she's a touch desperate for a little contact. He is the one currently getting pretty much all of the attention and she can't have that. So, it's a subtle things, the little ones she does without any thought. A slight lifting of her hips, or a little drifting lean toward his hand. She smirks, a tiny little lift of the corners of her lips, before she grabs his hand with her free one and guides it back, her fingers curling his and then moving away. She's warmer there than anywhere else, a constant humid warmth that flairs at the first little brush of his fingers, and shows the first little signs of any sort of weakness in her carefully constructed armor that she surrounds herself with.]

[ It's partially caution, partially playing with her, but mostly caution. He's remaining as he is, but his hand on her is both learning the curves and lines of her body and growing acquainted with them. It's not difficult to let her move his hand back to where she wants it, and he doesn't have a problem exploring and moving there instead. He slides two or three fingers inside her, curling to meet a cluster of nerves and stimulate them. He's well acquainted with this sort of thing, just not with her, somehow, and right now, he's not sure how they've never done this before. Like really. ]

You're fucking gorgeous, you know that. I don't -- Know what to say beyond that.

[She makes a satisfied sound when he complies, a slightly bigger one when his fingers move against her. Her breath catching completely as he slides them into her. Everything stops for a moment- a brief beat. Her heart, her hand, everything all together just... ceases.

Except his hand.

When she comes back to herself she huffs a little laugh, smiling at him- her thigh is twitching, every perfect curl of fingers causing it to tremble slightly.]

Yes, but it is nice to hear.

[Why... did it have to take this to put them here, when it could have just as easily have been any number of other times? Possibly because somethings... are just so much better when you wait.]

[ He likes the noises she makes as he does the right things - it makes him more likely to seek out similar right things and do them in turn. Although right now, sort of preoccupied. Fingers inside her working a steady rhythm, her own hand by this point either gone or motionless on his cock, which is fine, he has a thing about reciprocation anyway, but he doesn't care one way or the other. He just loves the look on her face, unguarded and pleasured, even if for a moment, and after her words he simply curls his fingers a little bit more, a tease, because leaving them entirely back to normal, a rhythmic in and out. In and out. Come on. ]

[He's lucky, because while she doesn't make much noise, the ones she does make are well earned. And yes, her hand did fall away, but only out of distraction and not out of lack of wanting to continue. Instead it's now curled around the forearm of the one he's teasing her with. Not to stop it, oh hell no, she's holding it to keep him there, to give him an encouraging squeeze when he stops. And then again, when he moves again.

Damn it... Before... it was blissfully perfect. In that, steady and easily building sort of way. Now? Fuck... while she's not complaining because, god.. whether she likes or not- he practically has her figured out- she is frustrated by how quickly he managed to 'make' her.

Though, if she's honest it isn't that hard to figure out what it is she might really enjoy in certain situations. Always so rigid and controlled in everything else she does. Yes, someone tuned in to that might expect that-- well, the unexpected would be a major part of how she likes to unwind. (Funny how that term when used in this situation is a misnomer. The quiet building tension is anything- but unwinding, really.. At least up until the point where it finally does spill over.)

She does not growl at him, not even a little, ~~oh yes, yes she does- though it is weak and barely counts as a growl~~, she does shoot him a tiny and pleading look. It's completely lacking any of her normal edge, it's pure and honest, and lost for a moment as she, in a moment of agonizing desperation, tries to shift back against his hand when he tries to draw his fingers out.

The sound she makes is new- compared to the other ones she's give him so far. It's a little needy, and perhaps a lot desperate. But, god damn it you slowed down, while not a major issue-- it sort of is a major issue right now because fuck.]

[ Well earned noise is almost just... even better. Having to work for it, knowing that it's not forced - from the woman who fooled him for just under a year, made him think she was entirely someone else, nearly got to this point once or twice (or so he'd thought, at the time) - knowing that this, now, was genuine. Well, that just gets him hotter, a flush hitting his neck and spreading down his chest - the design around the arc reator being somewhat remarkable where scar tissue refused to change colour and new skin changed far more than it ought to've done - it tapers out as it starts to hit his stomach, the blood in that area having another job to do.

She seems a bit more frustrated now, but not unhappy with his current actions, and so he keeps them up for the most part, adding creativity here and there, especially when she ~~does not~~ growl at him, because that's just all grades of ooh baby give it to me. The pleading, okay. Sure. He employs something learned through experience, shifting his hand just this one way to try and help, no longer removing his hand at all and simply bringing her to completion as quickly - but powerfully - as he can. ]

[Sometimes she is capable of constructing such elaborate and well played lies that even she starts to believe them herself. This though? This is completely honest, it's open and though still a bit restrained it is just for him- as a result of his actions. So there's that.

The hand not clamped around his forearm, in an effort to keep him where she wants him, traces over the patterns across his chest at least until she's far too distracted to maintain the slow moving sweep of her fingers and she simply drags her nails down his ribs.

Everything about that sound she made is screaming for him to- Oh! Yes.- She moans and writhes back against his hand, dropping her head to his shoulder, biting down as talented fingers push her passed caring about boundaries or appearances. Her core tightens around his fingers, her thighs around his waist.

She whines quietly against his neck urging him on, whispering for just a little more- justalittlejustalittlebitmore- She arches off his chest, her climax hitting her hard and forcing a low breathless moan, from her lips. Fuck. And they're only barely getting started.

Relaxing against him, her hear is pounding in her chest - fluttering and rapid- and she's it's a clear in his ears as is in hers. The Ex-Russian shifts, catching his bottom lip with her teeth tugging at it hard, then sucking at it to sooth it. She smirks, it's a touch lazy, but clearly no where near ready to quit 'playing'.]

Are you better? Because I'm much better, but I think... we still have a little work to do to make you better too.

[ He appreciates the honesty, because for all his lying and all his distracting other people with flash and substance, Tony tends to be an oddly truthful person, if not in words and plain actions then at least in his reactions instead. This kind of intimacy? Nearly entirely made out of reactions, and so to be in such an honest, vulnerable state, while the other person involved is maintaining some sort of facade - that would suck, actually. He would really dislike that.

The dragging nails get her a soft hiss, because after messing with all those scars like that, tracing them - some are old, no feeling, and some have newer skin, more sensitive than the rest - his nerves are starting to overstimulate. That and he just appreciated the feeling, what it meant, coming from her.

But honestly it's that look of her, arching off and away from him, tight tight around him, inside and out, and the moan - that's the reward there, and he can't help but grin a little bit, because he does enjoy being able to do that to someone else. It's just better that it's her, because she never shows so much like that. The grin is still there, in the corners, as she comes back to him, toying with his lip, then smirking herself. ]

I'm hotter. Happier. Harder than I would have thought possible considering how cold I remember it being in here. But it's not cold anymore, is it?

No, not cold at all. Things are definitely heating up nicely.

[She might still be a little breathless, more so from the anticipation of taking this a step further. She hums an approving sound as she slides against him shifting up his body, just enough to align them properly.

A simple little movement, graceful and almost effortless. She pauses there, just barely rocking against him, the tip of his cock pushing against her, her slick opening stretching around the blunt tip- then the almost satisfaction is gone, replaced with a breath of eager longing before she rocks back against him again. With each return she accepts a little more-

then a little more--

She claims his lips with hers again, a hard hungry kiss, full of teeth and eager breaths. Then she slowly sinks down on him; wet, warm and tight, she huffs against his mouth and pulls back to watch him for a moment.

Blinking down at him, she holds him there not moving- not yet- inviting him to either wait for her to decide it's time to move or grip her by the hips, well, make her. It's almost a challenge. A tiny little battle of wills. Has he let go of his hesitation enough now to take matters into his own hands? Or does she still have a little work to do?

Her head drops to his neck her lips sliding over the flushed flesh there, then down his chest- hitting pattern of his scars with soft kisses and an occasional drag of teeth or flick of her tongue.]

[ His face shifts into one of expectation, of anticipation, and he swallows as she brings them so so very close to each other properly, barely bothering to even breathe as he looks up at her, waiting. And then she does move, and his eyes are glued to the look in hers as she brings them closer and closer together. He's given himself over to the kiss so freely by the time she's fully on him that he takes a moment to recover when she does stop kissing.

Staring up at her for a moment, it looks like she's daring him to try something. And she's not moving. He shifts, out of impatience, hands on her hips forcing a rocking movement with his own shift and rotation that he, at least, rather likes - he's not sure how well she does, but it doesn't involve pulling out and ramming back in, both of which seem like chilly concepts from his point of view.

But when she drops to pay attention to his chest - the closer she gets to the reactor the less he seems to move - right now. In other moods, this is not the case. That gets his breath going a little more, chest tightening when she goes over a particularly sensitive area, screwing up his rocking rhythm thing. ]

[She keeps her eyes on him, a flickering smirk trying to form on her lips as his hands move her, but it flickers out- into something a bit more relaxed and Ohyesgood. Give her a minute, eventually she'll give him more direction, for the moment though she's more than happy to go along with this.

Mmhm. She flips her hair over her shoulder and trails lips up to his neck, a little drag of teeth just at his shoulder, gentle and not. Testing the limits of what it is she gets the right reactions from him. Like the simple stuttering out of time she drew from him with the caress of her tongue over certain places on his chest.

This is one of her favorite games. Probably his too, if he'd get out of his head long enough to enjoy himself and not worry as much about little things. It's sex, and as long as he goes with it there's a pretty damn good chance she's going to enjoy herself.

She rocks against him, moving with his movement and then coaxing him into a more steady rhythm. She's quiet- but not silent. Against his neck she makes soft quiet little sounds, enough to let him know that yes.. yes.. Now, they've got it right.]

[ Mmm, the hair flip is nice, but it's the teeth that really win his approval, a hum emphasizing the grip of his hands as he keeps up his motions.

She's drawing him out pretty nicely. By the time she coaxes him into a rhythm, he's all but lost his previous second thoughts and is actually behaving normally again, because it's sex, and it's good sex, with her, and really there's no reason to be worried, is there, because she's clearly enjoying herself just as well, judging by those soft little noises. Everything she's doing right now is basically perfect, although she is welcome to do more. It could get better, although it's not as though he's asking for it to. ]

[For the moment- and at least until things between them get a little more heated she's perfectly happy to continue the slow- and not entirely dissatisfying movement of her hips.

Especially, pleased when his grip tightens, and he all but purrs that humming sound of approval as her teeth find his shoulder. She wants more of those... more of those sounds and to do more things that make him forget that he's cold.

Her nails drag slowly up his ribs, then back down again, before she starts to push up and try to sit up, pausing just as she starts when she remembers that 1) she needs to keep him warm. 2) she's actually sort of enjoying the intimacy of the close contact. Moving to sit up would break that... unless she gets him to sit up with her.

Lips meeting his, for a slow and kiss. It's almost as though everything has slowed down- everything around them is nearly at a stand still while he continues guiding her to move on him. ]

[ It's okay he feels pretty warm right now. The nails are a good touch, and their wake shows goosebumps briefly because they settle back into his skin - at least until he remembers he's cold again and his body 'helpfully' tries to make the coat of hair he's obviously wearing puff up and catch more heat.

She could totally get him to sit up with her if she wanted to, but he didn't get that feeling out of what she just did, particularly not how she came back down to him for a kiss, and he opens up for her, for it, fighting back a little bit but mostly letting it happen, rocking underneath her as best as he can. ]

[ It has never been very high on his list to visit any royalty if he could help it or had any say in the matter. But, unfortunately, he doesn't and duty often calls when he wishes nothing more than to ignore the siren.

His shoes click on the floor, echoing in the rather empty hallways. Servants are tucked away doing their work and turning down beds or drawing up baths for their masters. An ill time for Loki to be meandering about, but that has hardly ever stopped him before.

Light spills out from a half opened door and he can hear the silent murmurs from inside and smell the sugary sweetness of too much cake. It makes his stomach turn. He thinks to turn around and leave, knowing full well should his shadow pass the door, he would be called in for a trying conversation that he doesn't wish to have. Yet, something propels him forward and he peers into the room, barely able to contain the urge to roll his eyes. ]

Had you not gouged yourself enough earlier today?

( marie looked up from the couch she had been lounging upon and smiled brightly at loki. she sat up, sending away the maid and walked over to him, her high heels clicking against the marble floor.

when she got up to him, she stood elegantly and bowed a bit. )

No I did not. Would you like some~?

( he'd unbuttoned her dress while she'd been on her knees before him, a knife sharp enough to slit his throat scraping over the skin of his cheeks, his jaw.

eve had stopped him then and not looked back. she doesn't know the whole story; she imagines few people at mi6 do with the possible exception of the former m. still, that james bond, double-oh seven had resigned over a woman was common knowledge, and there'd been plenty rumours what had happened to make him return to duty.

there's also the question of his reputation. eve has no problem with one night stands and she can't deny that she is attracted to bond, but that doesn't mean she wants to be a rebound, a stepping stone or a way to chase the shadows away for one night only. not when she's going to work with him after, not when she wants his respect.

so she'd stopped him and she hasn't regretted it since. it doesn't mean she hasn't sometimes wondered. she doesn't think it's going to come up again. )

Agent 007. ( inclining her head in greeting when he walks into the room, summoned by m. ) You're late.

[ And if her having such close control over the situation at that moment in time, in the middle of a mission, redefining the meaning of a 'close shave', old-fashioned ideas and everything still plainly recalled to mind, it doesn't really seem as though there could really be any situation where he couldn't make it be a topic that resurges. There are almost any number of adjectives and epithets that can be attributed to the all-but-nameless man at this point, and 'cautious' has never been one of them. Neither 'prudent', nor 'puritanical'. In fact, basically the precise opposites. ]

Forgot to reset my watch.

[ It's an apology said with as little apologetic tone as one can reasonably muster for such a mundane sentence, because he is fully aware he's late, and for M, he doesn't much care. The man may have earned a modicum of respect for not proving to be a complete figurehead, but there's a long road between earning the respect and trust he held for the former bearer of the title and someone who could arguably just be said to have been acting in a crisis.

She, on the other hand. It's almost remarkable how small the feelings for someone who shot him off a moving train on a four hundred foot bridge happen to be. ]

Should I report to the headmaster instead?

( No, if his reputation and the adjectives attributed to him contain even some truth — and a reputation is often based at least originally in the truth, if not specifically constructed — then he would likely not hesitate to revisit the topic, should he be so inclined. Even isn't sure how she would react, then, but one thing she has learned as a field agent is that plans are well and good, but thinking on your feet? That is what saves you in the end. Plans fall apart. )

That's quite tragic. M had to leave for another appointment, but I'm sure I could find someone willing to play the headmaster for you. ( Dry, and more than a little teasing.

She shot him, and some nights she still finds the image of his body falling superimposed over everything else; she was following orders and she is not going to reveal any lingering regret or weakness on the matter. It is what it is. )

[ He'd be pleased to know that she follows his reputation and adjectives so closely. Potentially even flattered, because when I said it was amazing how small the feelings for someone who had shot you happen to be, I meant it was remarkable, the size of the negative ones. Whatever field respect and faith he had in her before, as fellow field agents depending on each other for their lives, that's still there. Hasn't transferred away at all when she transferred out of that arena and into an altogether different one. ]

I'm sure there are several; some of them might even make me enjoy it.

[ Straight, but with a crinkle around his eye and a curl at his lip, basically an out and out smile as far as Bond and his face are concerned. ]

( Any 00 agent is quite a big deal, though Eve would not mention it to any of them, bloody big egos. She makes it her business to know about them, even more so these days than when she'd still been a field agent.

And then there's the small matter of having shot and shaven this particular 00 agent. )

Perhaps you'd like to go talk to either of them, then?

( Her own expression hardly changes, an eyebrow raised quite succinctly, except — except she is laughing internally. Sparring with Bond like this is always a pleasure. )

[ The size of the ego is there to make up for the smallness in number. If he's seventh, can you even imagine having to handle the second or third on a day-to-day basis? Don't even bother considering the first, it's just too painful to think about.

It's okay, you don't have to be obvious, he can still tell. ]

And I was so certain I'd find one of them here.

( truly a terrifying thought. those files, too, pass her desk. )

I don't know whether you'd enjoy it or not, Mr Bond, but what makes you think I'd play the headmaster? ( a twitch to the corner of her mouth, unconcealed. )

Roleplay already?

[ He, for his part, prefers never to interact with the other 00s. It's just easier that way, to keep them all nicely spread out. ]

The outfit I have in mind wouldn't really fit me. [ Too narrow in the shoulders, deep in the chest, short on the thigh, etc. ] 'Already'? [ Have you forgotten all that time in the field so easily, Ms. Moneypenny? What was all that if not roleplay? ]

( what happens if you put two or more 00 agents into one room together? perhaps better not to find out. either it would end in homicide, or in them getting along too well for anyone's comfort. )

Don't elaborate, I can guess. ( Yeah. That. ) Already, Mr Bond. ( Because it doesn't count when it's work. )

[ a quad-o alliance. horrifying.

that is, again, what passes for a smirk, because of course, that doesn't count, although as far as he's concerned, if he sees the net results of such role-play out in the field, it counts well enough for him. ] I enjoy a direct approach.

That doesn't come as much as a surprise. ( she's heard about his conquests, of course. you can't be a 00 agent without building up a reputation in mi6, and his is one of fast cars, of alcohol, and of women. he doesn't seem to mind much when they end up dead sooner or later, and it would make eve uncomfortable to be attracted to someone who sees women only as cards in a game, except she understands the mindset — and she has no plans to fall prey to it.

if, if she choses to sleep with him, it will be on her terms. )

[ He imagines that not much surprises Ms. Moneypenny, even regardless of whether or not she's working in the field or at a desk. She has that unique gift. ]

And what do you prefer?

[ If he is direct, she seems something more along the lines of 'smooth'. Not that he can't also be smooth, just... There are times when he uses it and times when he does not. For him, it's a tool. For her, it feels like more a state of self. For her, he thinks, the direct approach is the tool.

If it helps at all, she has distinguished herself thus far as quite the unique and special card. Her card will be retired from use, afterwards. If there is one to be had. ]

( that is a rather accurate analysis of both of them. she'd applaud his sense of introspective, if she knew of it.

the art is not so much in not being surprised, as it is in not letting her own surprise, when it does happen, faze her. )

That depends entirely on the situation, Mr Bond.

[ luckily for the both of them, he is only keen on offering meaningful character analysis to that same character when there are komodo dragons in the room, so ]

Situations are frequently influenced by personal desire.

( luckily, there are no komodo dragons in this room, nor does eve have any interest in acquiring them. )

You don't say. ( a slow smile. )

[ oh but he does. he doesn't say much, but he says. ]

Mm, and circumstance. These, circumstances, right now - they could be far more entertaining.

And let me guess: you'd be more entertained by someone playing headmaster to your naughty schoolboy.

I was thinking lunch, but I'm willing to let my desires be influenced.

I think I'd prefer lunch, Mr Bond.

When do you get off?

I set my own schedule, Mr Bond.

A statement not often applicable to government employees.

We are hardly typical government employees.

[ He's holding her coat out for her. ]

And where is it that the atypical government employees tend to go for lunch?

I can only speak for myself, Mr Bond -- [ slipping into the coat with a brief smile for him. ] but there is a deli down the street that I rather like.

[ aw, just for him? ]

After you.

[ just for him - since he's taking her out to lunch and amusing her. yes. ]

Such a gentleman.

[ His response to that is simply a short, abbreviated smile, as he grabs his own coat and prepares to follow her out towards this favoured deli. ] How's M been treating you?

Like I told you before — [ en route, heels clicking against the floors of MI6 ] he's not as bad as everyone thinks he is.

That's not what I asked. [ absence of a negative doesn't therefore technically prove a positive. ]

I miss M. [ A light shrug, as though the admission hasn't cost her. ] But he's competent and I like the work.

[ Don't we all. ] You seem to enjoy it. [ Said with all the air of a man who never could. Although he's glad you've found something you're better at. ]

I do. [ more than she expected when she'd been suspended from field work originally. ] You'd be surprised how interesting it can be.

You know, I probably would. [ If only because... He is so entirely not a deskjob kind of man. He's never had one and he's still positive of this fact. ]

[ Much like field work, it isn't for everybody. ] I imagine you would be very surprised.

[ But look, here they are. ]

[ Well then why doesn't he just get the door for you. ] Are you trying to insinuate something?

[ Such a gentleman. ] Only that you aren't the type to enjoy desk work, and you'd never expect to.

[ Following in after her and sliding into a booth. ] Insinuating correctly, then. That doesn't happen often with insinuations.

[ She doesn't need to study the menu, but she slides it over to him. ] Maybe I am just very good at it.

[ Why thank you. He takes another minute or two to read the thing and make his selections. ] I don't doubt that.

Pleased to hear it, Mr Bond. [ She is, in fact. ]

[ So now they're just waiting for a waiter. He takes the time to address her instead. ]

Good comments from me are really that uncommon?

[ There's one making his way over to them now. ]

You and I hardly get the chance to extol on one another's virtues very often.

( MI6 agents do not have the highest life expectancy. It's worse, of course, for the 00 agents, but recent events have really hit home how close any of them are to death at a given time.

Recent events, like shooting 007 and MI6 being blown up quite spectacularly. Some of them cling to the illusion that they're untouchable, some of them try to deal with the knowledge of their own mortality in various ways.

Eve works. She loves her job, always has, despite its shortcomings and the troubles it brings. Work means she's present when Silva rudely interrupts the hearing, and work means that she follows him when he leaves, gun drawn and leaving M in Tanner's capable hands. )

[ anger is fresh and cutting, and silva's skin is crawling with it, the frustration of a plan gone awry because of (admittedly unsurprising) interference—and his own hesitation, the split-second of i have her, i have her, i—

he could have shot her in the head, bang, a neat little hole right between her eyes. he could have ended it. but he didn't, not fast enough, and the thought gets stuck in his throat as he leaves the carnage immediately, drops the magazine on the cold hard whitehall steps, inserts another into the glock from an inside pocket of the police uniform. silva's had plenty of time to practice crystallising his temper, cooling it down until it's ice-sharp, but this disappointment is still hot. he doesn't check corners, only moves with determination toward the exit point: get out, don't make a sound, retreat to safety before the next move.

so it's only when he reaches the vehicle that he catches movement at the corner of his eye. a split-second later, he flings open the car door, crouches behind it, before taking aim and firing a warning shot at the flash of motion following him. ]

( that he could have shot m and didn't is something that they both know, something that eve is not going to count in his favour because he may not have gone through with it, there may not be a bullet between m's eyes right now, but that does not mean that he hasn't done considerable harm.

she's just a little too slow to catch him unawares, but it's more than she might have had, a better chance than anything so far, since he's escaped and before that, really, given that his capture had been carefully orchestrated by none other than silva himself.

eve takes cover behind one of the columns — marble, she thinks, inconsequentially. breathe, aim, fire — eve takes out one of the tires because containment is the first step. don't let him escape again. )

[ silva is no longer the double-oh he used to be, older, warped, content now to slip smoothly through life wearing flamboyant suits and a dangerous air of unpredictability, his fingers laid gently across the keys of a computer. but he hasn't lost the drive, the ruthless efficiency which mi6's training had drawn out of him. here, the trappings fall away. here, his persona is of a killer, not a businessman—and all his clever associates know that silva has never stopped being a killer, even with the loyalty burned out of him. he doesn't have the time or inclination to send a smile, a slash of white teeth, a wayward touch. and it's because he isn't in control. hasn't regained it. not here, and not yet.

the tire shot has his men spilling out of the getaway car, three of them, all armed. one sets up behind the driver's side door, the others crouch behind the far side, guns drawn, bullets spattering the side of the building. silva darts a glance at the lackey closest, then at his immediate surroundings. check for entry points, for exits, formulate a strategy. he knows the drill, knows what the agent is doing (because of course it's an agent, he can't tell which yet, hadn't bothered to look at anyone other than m and bond and that dull bureaucrat mallory), because he's done it many times himself. make escape impossible, then engage the target head-on. either subdue or terminate.

he fires again, takes a chip out of the marble column, then moves quickly behind the bulk of the car. his men will make for roadblocks if nothing else, little blips on the map. inconsequentially useful. whitehall is expansive, and he knows reports of his getup have been circulating ever since bond had spotted him on the tube; he can't escape on foot without getting gunned down. another car it is. stolen, this time, the old-fashioned way.

silva breaks for it while the others shoot, past the fence and through the gate, into oncoming traffic. a car screeches to a halt just next to him, and he points the gun amiably through the window with one hand, using the other to beckon quickly. the startled man opens the window briefly—officer?—and silva uses the opening to reach in, unlock the door, and wrench the driver out. he slides in, checks the mirror. drops the gun in the passenger seat and screeches off into traffic, hands curled tight against the leather of the steering wheel. ]

( there's a curse on the tip of eve's tongue, but it doesn't get a chance to pass her lips because her focus is on silva, on the gunfight, on his men; there's no time to swear, no matter how appropriate it may be. there's a certain beauty that eve can appreciate in that kind of focus, and there's ruthless intelligence in silva that she can admire without endorsing it.

perhaps it's too much of a risk, but eve has always excelled at thinking on her feet, at trusting her instincts — rather than let herself be drawn into a lengthy firefight with his men, she makes a break for it — shooting one in the process and it's luck more than anything else that the bullet fired by another doesn't connect to her shoulder. she can hear it whistle past her, too close for comfort. she isn't about to let herself dwell on that, either. the life expectancy of agents is short. she's made her peace with that, or thinks that she has. as much as anyone can.

the tactic says to formulate a strategy, but silva is still one step ahead, continually moving and it makes it hard to do anything but follow after him, to keep at his heels and hope that at one point, there will be mistakes, that at one point, he will stand still long enough for them not only to catch up but to actively formulate a strategy. she hates that he's still ahead of them, that one man can seemingly outrun and outthink this entire agency that she has put so much of her faith and sweat and effort into.

running into traffic isn't a smart choice, either, but eve makes it regardless, firing at the rear window, at the tires of the car he'd just stolen. )

[ the rear window shatters. silva ducks his head, allowing the car to swerve, the sound of honking horns and screeching tires surrounding him as he tries to navigate his way through the busy lanes without slowing down. a jolt somewhere in the rear axle tells him that a bullet's punctured another tire, and he hisses out a breath, eyes flicking from the rearview mirror to the road. he can see the silhouette of the agent: gun drawn, slim figure, probably female—(and that narrows it down considerably, doesn't it)—but he doesn't stop to try and identify her further. can't afford wasted time, can't afford to be caught again without a failsafe in place. they might not know all his tricks, but q's a quick study, and silva knows boy wonder won't be letting his guard down like that again.

when he'd led bond on that merry chase, it had been on purpose; he'd rigged the london underground knowing bond's expertise would allow him to keep up, to be at the right place at the right time. he'd left the door open. an invitation. stayed until the lights went up—come hither. then he'd thrown a train at him. now, with a failed mission and scorched dignity under his belt, silva has to think on his feet, get back to his roots. he might be one step ahead, but it's anyone's game. (and isn't that thrilling, just a little? enough to take the sting off, anyway. enough to keep him occupied in the interim, between escape and find m.)

silva can still move with a punctured tire, but he won't get far with it, not on these streets and with an agent on his tail. his eyes search the surrounding buildings as he scrapes by a cab, shearing paint from the metal. the vehicle is handling well under the circumstances. silva can tell the man who owns it doesn't care for the brakes as well as he should, but that's a non-issue when he's only got a few more metres to drive before it ceases to matter.

with an anticlimactic bump, silva runs the car onto the kerb. pedestrians who had been looking on with interest scatter as the hunk of metal careens toward them, shrieking to a halt in front of another gate, leading down a narrow alley between two buildings, near an intersection. his hand finds the glock, and, weapon outstretched, he slides out of the car. throws another glance behind him, ducks down, shoots the lock off of the gate, and runs through. ]

( this time, eve does curse under her breath. at least he's out of the car, giving her a better chance to pursue him, a better chance to keep up. she's already running, shouting to pedestrians to get out of the way — the gun helps in making that point for her. the car blocks the access to the gate that silva's escaped through somewhat, and she ends up sliding over the hood of it. there's little time for caution now, no time to take cover and peer out from behind it to check that the path is clear, that he is not waiting for her behind the next corner, gun drawn.

he wants m. eve doesn't think that he'd hesitate even just a second in killing her if it meant getting to m. for now, though, he is on the run and she isn't going to let him get away if she can help it at all. she knows these streets. he probably does, too, but he hasn't been in london in a while, if her intel's accurate. does he know about the construction sites, the quirks of an ever-changing city that aren't big enough blips on the radar to be announced on the internet?

maybe it boils down to luck.

she's breathing hard already, but over the rush of blood, she's hyperfocused — adrenaline and training combining to let her run just a little faster than she might usually, to be quicker on her feet. she's not q to have the entire road map of london laid out before her, but she can think ahead, calculate where he might run, what lies ahead regardless, at least to some extent. )

[ he had given some thought to hanging back, waiting until the agent passed through the gate, before putting the gun to her head and ending the chase with a spray of thick red. but there are no guarantees, no backup; it's just the two of them, cat and mouse, and it's not over yet.

he had made sure to map out london before his arrival, traced it up and down and side to side until he was satisfied he'd covered it all to his liking. it hadn't been his home for some time—in fact he's not sure it ever was, just somewhere grey to live when he left his country and trained and killed and did whatever it took to please dear old mother—but the underground he knows very well, enough to get by without a computer. but it's trickier here, up top. without a map. being chased into alleys with little idea of how they fit into each other, like tabletop wooden maze with two little mice, trying desperately to get out.

so he runs instead, footfalls loud against the ground, eyes sharp, cataloguing everything. he might be older now, his breath might be coming faster than it did in his youth, but silva still knows how to play this game—the chase, the genuine rush of being hunted. it shapes you, this feeling. high stakes.

it's time to turn this around.

there's a backdoor (there always is, isn't there) into some anonymous building, going by the smell. cover. silva shoulders into it with a crack, rushes through—but quietly, checking corners. he can hear the sirens even through the thick walls; if he can just get to charing cross, shed the uniform, cover the hair, he'll be home free. this time. but not yet.

the dull chatter of voices is audible, but it sounds like it's a few rooms over, a mindless permeating noise. where he is it's dark, the antique hallway abandoned—some high-class pub must be a wall or two away, catering to confused or oblivious patrons, watching breaking news about the shoot-out at the hearing just a block away. not perfect, but it'll have to do. silva sets up around a dividing wall like a tightly coiled whip, firearm heavy in his hands, eyes narrowed. his forefinger rests lightly on the trigger guard as he takes aim at the entrance he'd just come through, sighting down it, watching the door creak a few inches inward at a stiff breeze.

he hadn't bothered to close it; it's an invitation. ]

( it might have been a quick death, had he decided that way, it might have ended quickly — or she could have reacted soon enough and turned the tables. there is no telling, in moments like this, who has the upper hand. is he running away or leading her on a chase? is she straining to keep up, or setting the tempo now?

there is no telling, though the open door is an indication as to what he thinks. she can't help but admire his confidence — can't help, at the same time, hoping that it will lead to some mistake, some flaw. confidence can be your greatest strength, and it can backfire. eve spents a split-second of time hoping (not praying, because she's never been religious) that it isn't over-confidence on her part, before she steps through the door, gun raised and her finger poised over the trigger, casing the room. )

[ there.

he doesn't hesitate—

—but it's not a kill shot.

the bullet buries itself in the door frame, an inch from her skull. silva's fond of warnings, especially when the odds are evened. it's a provocation. he might not be in a position to taunt anyone right now, but then again, he never really liked the idea of conventional interaction; not in gunfights, not in chases, not ever. he turns quickly so his back is against the wall, out of her line of fire. he'd caught a real glimpse of her then—very pretty, too pretty for the likes of mi6. miss... moneypenny, if he remembers correctly. from bond's file—one of mi6's best and brightest. the agent who'd shot bond off the train in the first place. a real pity his death hadn't stuck. and a pity she hadn't tried harder, for that matter.

silva tilts his head up, every muscle thrumming with cold adrenaline. there's a smile in his voice when he speaks, but it's not one of amusement. ]

What are you planning to do, Eve? [ it's loud enough to carry, rich enough and familiar enough to be unsettling. eve—a good name. the woman who was tempted by the snake. fitting, maybe. ] Take me back in a body bag?

( eve feels cold, despite having just run, despite her blood pumping. her hands don't shake, though, and she doesn't shiver — the last time she'd been this focused, it had been on two figures fighting on top of a moving train. she'd missed, then. she isn't planning on missing again. good agents learn from their mistakes, and eve may no longer be a field agent, but that doesn't mean that she's forgotten any of her training, that she's set her sense of duty aside. this is still her job, field agent status or not.

it doesn't give her pause that he knows her name. he's managed to hack into their system more than once. of course he knows who they are. ) Is that what you would like?

( if he wants to play psychological games, fine. it'll give her a little more time to assess the situation, their respective positions. she has little cover where she is, but there's an opening to another room not to far from the entrance, no door in the doorway, but if she could make it into that room, it would provide her with the cover of a solid wall, enough to stop another bullet. and she would have as much of a shot at his position from there as from here. )

This doesn't have to end with someone in a body bag. ( keeping her voice even; bored almost. it takes some effort. it takes more effort not to reveal her intention to move before she does; pushing herself off the wall and half-running, half-throwing herself through the opening.

it's not elegant and it isn't poised. it doesn't need to be either of those things. )

[ he fires before he answers. misses her just barely, though this time the failed shot isn't intentional—he meant to hit her then, but she's fast, good girl. good training. his answer echoes after the crack of the gunshot, aiming unblinkingly at the new doorway she just disappeared behind: ]

Maybe not.

[ he stays where he is, stock-still and alert. from this angle, the wall is meagre cover, so he crouches a little, breathes through his teeth. then, slowly, he edges forward. ]

Mommy's going to be very angry with you. Disobeying orders, no reinforcements, no guarantee of survival. Especially after your last disaster. [ he makes a pitying noise. ooph. ] What a mess.

[ mind games have always interesting to him; the give-take of power and perception, so important these days. even moreso after a piece of his own mind got lost somewhere back in china, all those years ago, taken by his captors and shredded beyond recognition. he has no doubt that she knows what he's doing, but it would be remiss of him not to take this chance in spite of the situation. ]

But I suppose... you helped me. [ that hard drive had been hard to come by. ] Thank you for that.

( that was lucky, and she knows it. a fracture of a second later, slower, and that bullet might have hit her. she gives herself this: one moment to breathe — exhale, inhale, steady — and she's on her feet again, heart beating wildly but her composure undamaged.

of course he's playing mindgames, and of course she recognises it. they train for situations like these; the recognition makes it easier not to let it get to her. she may have unwittingly helped him, but that, too, had been chance more than anything. some things you cannot control, and eve is trying to let go of those things. focus on what she can change, what she can control, which is her reactions, her own actions if not always their consequences. ) I'd say that you're welcome, but I'd be lying.

( she can see his movement, can just barely make it out in the play of light and shades. she doesn't have a shot. )

Do you have anyone who'd be angry with you? ( because two can play this game. ) Anyone who cares?

[ he lets out a thick bark of laughter, abrupt and over too quickly. his voice is giving away his position, but he doesn't mind; they're both in a stalemate until an overt movement is made, though he continues to prowl just beyond the door, watching it like a hawk through the dim light. ]

Freedom has its price.

[ his tone makes it sound like he doesn't care—and he doesn't, really. the only person he ever truly respected betrayed him and he's going to make her suffer for it, not out of love, but out of slow-burning revenge. there is no room for caring in this business; anyone who says otherwise will inevitably go the way of vesper lynd, and wasn't that a pathetic show for all involved. so predictable. so predictable. ]

The whole world is angry with me. The whole world cares. [ he pauses, smiling to himself. ] But not in the way you mean.

I can see why he likes you.

That's what I thought. ( she wonders what he used to be like, before he turned into who he is today. had he always been a little too close to the edge?

bond would probably agree with him. maybe m would, too — that there is no room for caring in this business. eve thinks you have to care, otherwise you forget the purpose of all this. she doesn't want to end up some empty shell carried forward only by a sense of honour or duty, or revenge. she doesn't want to stop caring. perhaps that is a liability. she'd like to think of it as a strength instead. )

I'm not sure I'd like the freedom you have in mind.

No?

[ a quiet snort, a rush of breath out the nose. more pseudo-pity. ]

You can do what you want. Say what you want. You'll never have to take orders you don't agree with again. [ little old ladies, he remembers. is he to give this speech to every agent he meets? they don't really get it; and it angers him, a little, the disappointment fresh in his mind and rising back to the surface. he had been so close. ] Or take shots you don't want to take. Life is so dull when you live it under someone else's thumb.

[ casually, though his voice lowers as he approaches, another step, and then another: ] I don't know how you stand it. Caged up under the pretense of 'serving your country.' One day they'll betray you, and you'll see what a waste it is. It's inevitable.

No. ( she can hear him approach, his voice and the softest echo of his steps, no matter how careful he treads. this house is old, not well insulated against sound.

she wants to hope for back-up, but knows that it might not come. maybe she's on her own. maybe this is it. maybe she'll die here. if she does, she'll try to take him with her, but she has no intention of dying. none whatsoever. he has a point when it comes to not taking shots she doesn't want to take — the first thing that resonates, to some extent. her superiors aren't perfect, she knows that, too. m has never let her down, has never acted with the best of intentions for england, for her agents. it's lamentable and at times, it demands hard choices.

eve might not always agree with them, but she can understand. she does. )

It happened to you. That doesn't make it inevitable.

( she may have a clear shot soon. if she moves to take it, he will have the same shot. does she want to take that chance? )

[ his answer is a dry chuckle, laced with irritation. ]

It could happen to anyone. That is what makes it inevitable.

[ closer. closer. the tension in the air is—taut, like wire. silva adjusts his grip on the glock almost lovingly, moving ever forward, an inexorable force. he has a straight escape to the door he came through, but that way lies the police—and he'd honestly rather kill her first. ]

( she'd be more pleased to hear the irritation if he hadn't gotten to her with the one comment, too. that's why these games are dangerous; you never know which hits are going to connect, and how. )

Is that what you tell yourself to make it bearable? ( perhaps taunting him isn't smart; not even if her voice is still even, curious more than actually taunting. almost gentle, and she suspects that will be more insulting than anything else. maybe if he is angry, it will lead to mistakes. maybe it will lead to hyperclarity on his part and she is digging her own grave deeper with each sentence, each passing second.

there is no way of finding out without action, and eve didn't join mi6 to do nothing. she abandons cover, gun raised and aimed at where she assumes him to be. it only takes a split-second of correcting her aim, then she's pulling the trigger. )

[ a flash of movement, and his reflexes take over. he doesn't have time to stifle the rise of anger, but it doesn't make him careless, only focused—enough to see the shadow cross his path, enough to dart forward, to the side, aim in an instant. fire ruthlessly without hesitation.

it's in the second after the instantaneous ringing bang that he staggers to the side, into a glass cabinet that cracks (but doesn't break) under his weight. the gun is still half-raised in muted defense, but his focus now is on his side, his gut, where eve's bullet had torn through the soft flesh just under his ribs. he looks down curiously, presses his palm to the oozing warmth. it comes away soaked in red.

he looks up at her, eyes narrowed, but still with a smile, an unshakeable amusement even through the lancing pain. she hasn't shot him in the head yet—hasn't made a move to finish him off, which is how he knows he got her too. laughing hurts like a bitch, but it's worth it. he can't help himself. ]

Well done! You didn't miss this time.

( she would have shot him again — perhaps not in the end, perhaps only to incapacitate him further, but she would have shot him again — if not for his bullet lodged in her shoulder, if not for the pain.

she doesn't hide the way she grits her teeth against the pain, the grimace, nor does she stop herself from going down on one knee, knocked off balance by the impact and in too much pain to find it again. those things aren't important enough to spent energy on. what is important is this: switching her gun to her left hand to aim it at him. she may miss, but at least she has a gun trained on him again. it makes her feel safer.

and maybe she would have shot him again then, if not for the sound of sirens, the footsteps. she can only hope that these are legitimate cops. )

Thank you. Your praise means the world to me. ( bitten out, but trading sarcastic quips with him is something to focus on beside the pain that's making her vision swim. she can't very well pass out now. )

( everyone working at mi6 knows the importance of coffee; the importance and the perils of it because you need steady hands to hold a gun and somewhat steady ones to type as quickly as possible, yet caffeine's practically a requirement, given the hours that they work, an the times.

eve is no stranger to coffee, though she considers it a somewhat acquired taste — she used to hate it, as a child, scrunch up her nose when her mother made a pot because she'd disliked the smell even then. these days, she drinks it regularly and doesn't mind either the smell or the taste of it, out of necessity.

so most days start with coffee, and coffee is a constant throughout. most days do not end like this: a bottle of wine open beside her and london stretching out below while eve sits on the roof top and remembers that sometimes, she deserves to take a minute or to just to breathe. in this case, m himself had given her the bottle and sent her away.

instead of going home, she'd found a glass and a blanket and taken her well-deserved break up on the roof that she'd found bond on, once. )

[ He's a field agent, but that doesn't mean 007 is always out in the field. Actually, the reality of his job means that he spends more time in the office than not, expertly dodging his paperwork while he waits for the next mission. Even though Mallory supposedly intents to keep making use of him, it's been weeks since he's been out fighting the good fight for Queen and country. It may be starting to get to him.

Bond keeps elastic office hours until six, and skulks around the canteen for most of them, entertaining the agents that approach him (truthfully, he's not much of one for company, but he's happy to use an excuse to avoid filing reports) and going through pots of coffee. He adores coffee, abhors tea.

He also has a habit of smoking from time to time (becoming more like a chimney as the time without missions roll into months), which is why he found access to the roof and why he's up there now. ]

I see you've discovered the true use of the roof.

[ He speaks from leaning against the wall where the access door is. It hadn't opened and shut, so where the hell did he come from? He's been up here, truth be told, hiding away, although he'd never admit as much. Bond's had enough of people today and, were she anyone else, he might not have said anything at all. ]

I wasn't really expecting to share.

[ He flicks ash into the wind with a twitch of a gloved finger. The corner of his lip twitches in the dying light of the sun. ]

( Eve doesn't mind the interruption, raising her glass in a silent salute for a moment, one corner of her mouth quirking up into a smile. She doesn't mind sharing -- though she'd expected a quiet evening, a moment to breathe and to let go. Chatting with Bond doesn't necessarily negate that, because she's found that their banter (most of the times easy, flirtatious without being serious) keeps her mind off things.

Between that and the wine, she should forget about the stress and the long hours and the fact that M of all people figured she needed a break because she's been working too much. )

Are you complaining, Mr Bond?

[ There's a slight nod to the salute. Cheers, dear. He's sure you've been working ten times as hard as he has today. ]

Mmm...

[ A musing note behind another draw off the cigarette, a bright cherry gloe among his dark cost and the dying light. ]

Your cooperation stung bad enough. I'd rather hate to see you offended.

( She most likely has been, and if not for M sending her away, she'd still be at it. She loves what she does, and there is a never-ending supply of it. )

Then you had better take care that you don't offend me. ( Said with a slow smile, though it's hidden as she lifts her glass for another sip. )

[ Well, he can certainly understand that. He loves his job, too, even if he did go through a phase of wanting nothing to do with it. It's a shame no one can find him any work yet. ]

I'd never dream of it, Miss Moneypenny.

[ A slow exhale of smoke. ]

But sometimes men, especially me, lack the grace of expressing themselves quite so eloquently with words. Perhaps that's why we crave the company of a good woman.

Sometimes I think I'd try stealing you away for myself, Moneypenny, if I didn't think another man needed you so desperately.

Did M give you that wine?

[ She can understand the wanting nothing to do with it as well; though she's never gone through such a face herself - at least not as of yet - she knows the demands the work of a field agent makes, and that of a double-oh is even more intricate and demanding. Still, she can't help but be pleased that he's back, both for MI6 and because she finds that she enjoys his presence. ]

Smart man.

[ And his words definitely earn him a smile, even as she takes another sip and raises an eyebrow at him. ] Is that so, Mr Bond? And what makes you think that I would let you?

He did.

A Picture is Worth... Meme.

Litchi Faye-Ling || BlazBlue

Fuuko Kirisawa || Flame of Recca

august w. booth | once upon a time

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eames | Inception

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<3

I'm horrible here you go.

It's all good, bb!

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John "Pyro" Allerdyce | X2 | OTA

look, it's clever. :|

hahaha, awwww!

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Forgive me, mobile replies

no problem o7

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Patrick || Supernatural

Eve Moneypenny | 007: Skyfall

natasha romanoff / black widow | marvel cinematic universe

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april ludgate(-dwyer) | parks and recreation

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james bond | 007 | skyfall

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lol this is going to be ridic

clearly my body is ready

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sorry for the horrid delay

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Edgar Roni Figaro | Final Fantasy VI

Richter Belmont | Castlevania

Re: Richter Belmont | Castlevania

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Piers Nivans | Resident Evil

natasha romanoff ( black widow ) ⌛ marvel cinematic universe

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