aim true

Looking up at the person across from him didn’t feel like an option, not when he felt so BADLY for his absence. Ramsey mindlessly rubbed and traced patterns into the soft fabric of his armchair, watching Duga fold herself into a circle and get comfortable in her bed. 

“Greetings, comrade.” Aleks, who had been sitting cross-legged in one of Ramsey’s armchairs with a glass in one hand, and his gun in the other, swivelled around. He angled his head slightly – regarding the other agent with that dark, mischievous gaze of his. “Whisky isn’t my favorite, but I’ll take it over that скипидар you call wine.” Aleks said with a derisive smirk. Then he sipped his drink.  

Clearly, Ramsey hadn’t anticipated the Soviet’s arrival, for he hadn’t clothed himself. The fact that he was COMPLETELY NAKED didn’t phase Aleks – though his eyes roved along Ramsey’s body, taking a second to appreciate some parts more than others.

“You can get dressed now.”

“You’re a prat.” 

The bookend hit the carpet with a loud thud, a groan from Ramsey following soon after. He felt the other’s gaze slowly moving over him, lingering in some more private areas, but Ramsey didn’t look phased at ALL. A comment on the other’s lack of taste came to mind, or about how this was entirely inappropriate, but all Ramsey actually did was give Aleks an annoyed glare before going back into his bedroom. Moments later, he returned in a clean pair of underwear and a knee-length robe. Ramsey poured himself a drink and sat on the opposite armchair to his guest, inhaling and taking a long sip of his whisky. 

hey y’all, i felt like i should just kind of explain where i’m at these days. i started at a new position at my job a few weeks ago, and it’s been insanely busy. i’ve been working ~55 hours a week with little help. i’ve also been having significant struggles with my mental health, as well as a recent diagnosis of a chronic illness. 

so pretty much... everything is going insane. i miss writing here, and i’m trying to come back when i have the mental energy. 

      He’d be reserved and bashful with strangers if he weren’t so used to running into so many dead ones every day.       ❝    I uh,     have quite a few from varying sources…    ❞     Parker raises the syrofoam cup of coffee to his lips and takes a tentative sip,       flinching because it’s much too hot for his sensitive mouth.       ❝    Um…     Do you remember some of your old servicemen?     Particularly Johnothan Morse?     Candice Flynn?    ❞     

John... Candice...

Ramsey’s stomach lurched uncomfortably, the names stinging as they settled in his ears and settled somewhere deeper in his mind. Two fellow servicemen... coworkers... FRIENDS. His facial expression gave away his recognition of their names before words manage to come from his mouth, his tongue suddenly feeling parched. Taking a sip of his tea did nothing to help. The agent nodded once, tongue passing over his lips as if to spur them to form WORDS. 

Once Ramsey muted his cell, Mike had to concede that it seemed more likely the agent was serious about this outing being less about work and more about baked dough. Deciding to shelve any protests for now, he spryly jumped to his feet, hoisting his jacket from the back of his chair.

“I mean, sure. I’d say we do the best everything here, but the Italians might disagree with us.”

His tone implied a smile he was too tired to muster, and for a moment, his gaze lingered on Madsen in quiet assessment. There was something old-fashioned about the guy, from his wardrobe to his choice in attachés—but not primly. He carried himself like he’d seen enough of the world and its people to know what parts he wanted to use, and it occurred to Mike that Madsen might already know what Rome’s chefs had to say.

“Come to mention it—you ever been to Italy?” As he spoke, he flung his jacket over his shoulder and opened the office door. For all his impatience, habit prompted him to wait for Madsen to exit first. “I know you’re representing the British, but that accent of yours is a singularity.”

Ramsey smirked -- and didn’t cover his mouth in time to muffle the snort -- that Mike’s comment elicited. It was a small thing, sure, but the agent was impressed with his quick a wit. He kept a half-step behind the lawyer, wanting to give the IDEA that he wasn’t sure where he was going. That wasn’t at all accurate, but that sort of thing made more people more relaxed -- he’d memorized the blueprints to this building the night before. He PROBABLY knew it better than Mike did.

“I have -- not in many years, but I spent a week in Rome when I was younger. Have you ever been? And my parents are Danish, and I grew up in Denmark. I only became a British citizen as a teenager.”

Comments on his accent honestly amused him -- it was unique, and most people couldn’t guess where he was from. It came in handy when it came to false identities, but it was also entertaining when he got to meet someone NEW. Throwing people off was one of his true talents, or at least he’d CONVINCED himself of that over the years.