❛ &. ┊ “ Why are you even on this case? ” There is a raspiness in Agent Donald Ressler’s voice as he addresses her, the lack of amicability present – almost palpable, but she merely returns the ungracious stare he gives her and unfastens the ballistic vest.
“ Well, I’m the best shot. ” Truth is, she understands the dissatisfaction that comes with a target being eliminated rather than taken into custody. But his arrogance is irritating; he too must admit that the bullet she’s shot through the target’s head is the only reason for why none of the present agents has been harmed. It’s an unfortunate ending, she knows. Still, hand shoves the vest right into his unwelcoming arms, lips sneer at him, and she can’t wait much longer to finally be around her usual team again. “ Tell Assistant Director Cooper that my report’s on his table by Monday morning. ”
He mutters something as she leaves the scene and part of her wishes she hadn’t. But to go back, to not let him have the last say on the matter – wouldn’t it have been equally as childish? Spread fingers run through dark strands of hair, eyes almost radiating with exasperating impatience as gaze briefly locks with Agent Elizabeth Keen’s. But she’s not particularly interested in socialising with her either. At home waits the allure of a bubble bath and a nice work out if head’s still troubled afterwards. And besides, she’s Reddington’s problem. Gods know, she really doesn’t want to have anything to do with whatever he’s up to now.
Caccini plays in the background as the remnants of an at least mediocrely calming bath vanish in the depths of a drain, hand occupied with brushing her teeth. It’s gotten late, although the exhaustion that wears away on her bones isn’t a result of time – she watches the water flush away the toothpaste after she’s spat it into the sink. Thinks about the day’s work, her work in general. Remembers, against her will, her file sitting locked away in the depths of the Russians’ archives. But it changes little about her life here. What she does, why she does what she does. Hand reaches out to take her night moisturizer out of the cupboard, mind entirely absent, somewhere entirely else –
-- and that that’s a mistake she realises only when the mirrored door of the cupboard is closed again and the reflection of a pair of eyes emerges behind her frame.
There is little pushback. In all honesty and naivety, she believes it to be a henchman of Reddington and minimises her resistance accordingly. He’s unimpressive, appears almost… unaware of her strength when a bag is shoved over her head and she, eventuality, pushed onto the backseat of a car. The blood of his broken nose reeks throughout the entire drive, lungs exhaling a tired breath, and wrists moving against handcuffs angrily. But she accepts it nonetheless – thinks that if she plays along, perhaps she’ll finally get to sleep.
❛ &. ┊ And are indeed all of her reactions staged until the point where the bag is finally removed and her gaze falls onto not Reddington, but the silhouette of a woman. The frown that tugs brows inward is genuine, the blood of a once chapped lip dried and the skin already healed – though invisible underneath the crimson crust above. And then the woman smiles and there’s almost… chills running down a spine.
@ncnducor. / the blacklist verse.
