Blackwood

       The door closes noiselessly behind Roman as he takes those first, uncertain steps. It isn’t often he feels uncertain. Or rather, that would be a bold faced lie. Most often he feels uncertain, but his body reacts, training embedded deep in his consciousness urging each limb forward in the right succession of steps. For this, he would never rely upon a scripted manual though he does believe one exists.  Soft eyes sweep over familiar features, knowing each dip and curve better than his own. He ticks off everything that is wrong: 

       Smooth skin split just above the brow.

       A cut marring his jaw, extending over his nose. 

       Black and blue with hints of yellow indicating healing bruises. 

       Bandages wrapped sturdily over the calf.   

       Carefully laid stitches, at least some are visible. 

            He has no way of knowing what lies beneath the fabric, but the marks he can see are enough to turn his lips and sink lead down into his stomach. He exhales through his nose before his own features shift, the movement causing the slightest wince to his nose. Thankfully the nose was able to be set, but it’s ugly still while it heals. “Hello sweetheart,” he purrs, attempting to bring lightness and familiarity into this new territory. Henry isn’t meant to be the one injured and recovering from god only knew what brutality. That was his job. 

           A quip bubbles at the tip of his tongue, urging him to spit it out, to make this normal. Henry doesn’t require gawking and coddling. He’s far stronger than Roman, who insists upon being babied. Yet whatever witty greeting he had disappears, leaving the taste sour in his mouth, enough that he has to swallow back bile before he’s able to try again. “Even now, you’re almost as beautiful as I am,” He offers, but it sounds lame, and he knows Henry will see through it, see his distress and worry, even though he doesn’t wish to upset Henry. He crosses the room uninvited to perch, toes curling in his shoes. “Apres la pluie le beau temps,” He offers softly, knowing full well it’s not so simple. He does believe it though, that Henry will find peace sooner rather than later. It’s something he wants to talk about, even with the anxiety festering like an open wound just below his ribs.       

oh how she’d missed this: playing coy. of course, she was happily married and would never even dream of infidelity but a quick flirt was not harmful. there was no way they would ever consider each other romantically, not just because of prior romantic entanglements. but there was a silent unspoken agreement between spy coworkers that the cordiality and the sweet talk was a charade. “i completely agree. being quite familiar with the art of disguise i cannot empathize the importance of clothing. and if we’re going to be in disguise all the time might as make it a good one.” 

&&.   closed starter | @rcmanblackwood

              “   i don’t believe we’ve had to chance to meet.   i’m noah jones,   i fabricate but i mostly enjoy putting very small ships inside of glass bottles.   ”

   “ah, you must have remarkable dexterity, mr. jones.” he offered, always admiring those adept at utilizing their hands, as he offered one of his own. “roman blackwood, we haven’t, but now’s as good a time as any. I was about to have a cup of coffee, would you like one?” he offered, though the offer was more to take a moment to get to know one another, as much as either of them felt comfortable. some basics, would be appreciated at least. 

@rcmanblackwood

“Finally, someone on the team with an ounce of classic style. I swear if I see one more sweater vest or tweed suit I’m going to  …” she trailed off, boasting a bright smile and soft giggle before extending her hand, “I’m Lena Marks - the pretty one, and nice one, and charming one on the team.” 

Well, if this is how this interaction was going to go, so be it. Levi was long past caring about niceties like actually answering the door.

His fingers brushed the handle of the gun concealed beneath the waistband of his pants before going to the door and pressing it slowly open. He didn’t know what he was walking into, but the last thing he wanted to do was startle a possibly trigger happy and definitely paranoid ex-MI6 agent.

“Mr. Blackwood,” Levi said again. He invited himself in, took a small step forward, and finally laid eyes on the so far speechless man. He took note of Blackwood’s gun with a cursory glance but shrugged it off. “My name is Levi Mercer. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Can I borrow a minute of your time?”

   Roman’s gun remained present, eyes narrowed, studying the stranger who entered his home. He could feel his pulse, thrumming beneath his veins, warning him to remain on edge with Mr. Mercer. It was necessary to note that Levi knew who he was, and knew of his former colleague as well. He pressed his lips together, edge turned down in disapproval at the request. 

Levi could hear someone moving around in there and he wasn’t about to leave emptyhanded. He had things to do, other people to find, leads to track, but he also desperately wanted this lead to work. It would make things that much easier. 

He knocked again, louder this time, before sighing. He checked the door and found it locked, which, he hadn’t known what he’d expected but it was worth a shot.

He knocked a third time and this time he spoke. “Mr. Blackwood,” Levi said, voice pitched loud enough to be heard through the door. “I’m here to talk to you about Maximilian Wasser.”

   Roman’s hands froze on the dish he was rinsing at the sound of the name. Maximilian Wasser. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. He’d worked with him a few times on select missions with MI6, though he would never have said they were particularly close. He wished the best for the older gentleman, he’d been a decent colleague and a solid agent. Still, there was something unsettling about hearing the name again after so long. 

     He quickly dried his hands on the towel, setting the dish to the side as he approached the front door, careful to stay out of any sight lines as he pulled his gun free, positioning himself on the defensive. There weren’t too many people who knew him and Wasser enough to put them together and to have anything to talk to him about. He reached with one hand, flicking the lock, making the assumption that Levi would hear it, that he was listening carefully enough. He didn’t say a word, not yet, he lived too close to civilians to--he was a civilian. Technically. He lived too close to others to have this sort of conversation under the scrutiny of nosy neighbors. 

@rcmanblackwood

Levi had only one chance to get this right, and he was going to make it count.

It wasn’t that he’d expected getting any of them back to be easy, but Henry, he knew, would be one of the more difficult ones. 

When CODA had disbanded, it hadn’t been under exactly the best circumstances for their former codebreaker. But, with nowhere else to turn, and with a desperate need for his skills, Levi knew he had to do what he could to bring him back.

So he’d started digging.

One of the people killed in the shooting at MI6 HQ was a former partner of MI6 wunderkind Roman Blackwood … and Roman Blackwood had worked with Henry as his Quartermaster. A fascinating coincidence.

And it was much easier to find Roman Blackwood than it was to find Henry Clarke; between the two of them, after all, only one of them actively didn’t want to be found.

If Roman had any connection with Henry… It was a faint lead, but it was a lead, and it wasn’t like Levi was running on a lot of those these days.

Which is how he found himself ringing the doorbell of a strange building bright and early on a Tuesday morning.

    Roman certainly wasn’t expecting company. As such, he made absolutely no immediate move to rise from the chair he was settled in when the doorbell rang. Whatever they were pandering, he wasn’t interested. He’d already heard about Jesus, thank you very much, and had committed to annual inspections of hearth and home to avoid needing any services of a repairman. As such, there was absolutely no one that he needed to see. 

       He ignored the sound, moving instead to deposit his dish in the sink, breakfast finished save for the second cup of coffee he was hellbent on procuring. Perhaps it was the lack of coffee that made him especially disinterested in answering the door, but nonetheless, he assumed they would go away. 

        It didn’t mean he had completely forgotten protectiveness over his own person, though. The route to the kitchen was intentional, meant to spot through the curtain that was just barely ajar, noticing that it was a gentleman, tall, unfamiliar. It was also the path that led to one of several weapons in the house, and he was careful to pick the gun up on his path, keeping it close to his body, the weight familiar though he didn’t have hairs standing on end, telling him that he would need to use it. 

          the  ocean  roared,  hungry  waves  crashing  against  the  open  shore ;  the  mouth  of  the  sea  open  wide,  wide,  wide,  and  ready  to  swallow  him  whole  if  he’s  not  careful  about  just  how  deep  he  dips  his  toes.  may  meant  the  chill  of  the  morning  could  be  tempered  by  the  warmth  of  the  water  as  it  rushed  up  to  kiss  his  feet  –––  something  of  a  ritual  he’d  made  a  habit  of,  some  few  years  running  now.  throwing  stones,  however,  was  rooted  in  his  childhood  on  that  same  strip  of  the  coast,  and  he  dips  down,  fingertips  sifting  through  fine  sand.   

          the  strain  of  the  muscle  of  his  arm  as  it  swings,  launching  the  stone  into  the  sea,  is  immensely  satisfying  for  reasons  he  –––  nor  his  mother,  nor  her  mother  before  her  ( neither  mother,  nor  crone )  –––  will  ever  entirely  understand.  but  it  is,  and  he  closes  his  eyes  against  the  whip  of  the  wind,  breathing  in  deep,  tongue  sweeping  out  to  lick  salt  from  his  lips ;  tucking  his  hands  back  into  the  pockets  of  his  coat,  shoulders  hunching  against  the  chill  of  an  english  spring,  henry  feels –––

          there  is  a  sound  from  the  dunes  just  behind  him,  high  grasses  brushing  against  a  long  stride.  henry  freezes,  fingers  twitching  in  his  pockets,  flexing  ( hesitance,  though  the  glock  hidden  –––  tucked  between  his  belt  and  his  lower  back  –––  burns  hot  against  his  skin ).  his  mind  flickers,  stutters,  flashing  through  a  catalogue ;  the  sheep  are  penned,  his  mother  is  in  town,  nan’s  not  begun  to  haunt  them  yet,  despite  her  playful  threats  some  two  years  ago –––

          a  voice  sounds,  a  chill  slithering  like  a  snake  down  henry’s  spine.    ❛  oh  no –––  ❜    all  too  familiar,  long  past,  but  not  yet  forgotten.    ❛  oh  non,  je  t'en  prie,  tu  ne  sommes  pas  chez  nous –––  ❜     irrational   irritation  flares  low  in  henry’s  belly  like  burning  embers  because  this  can’t  be  good.  he  was  so  careful  about  keeping  them  hidden,  keeping  them  safe.   after  all  that’s  happened.  he  spins  on  his  heel,  digging  deeper  into  the  sand,  stubborn,  green  eyes  flaring.    ❛  salaud.  ❜  

     it’s enough to threaten the quirk of roman’s lips, those flaring green eyes. recognition of that stubbornness flickers in his own, hints of the sea reflecting, before shifting back to a hint of amusement. henry is there, standing in front of him, heels digging into the sand and calling him a bastard and the ache in his bones eases just the tiniest bit as he exhales, breath tickling his upper lip. 

       he shouldn’t be here, he knows that, and yet as like calls to like, there he stands. he’s not certain he’s ever done something right with henry, though god knows he did try, it seems he’s always been destined to complicate the poor man’s life. “hello darling,” he purrs, switching to english as naturally as he switched to french. conversations are more interesting in multiple tongues, after all. “I believe you forgot the ‘handsome’ before that salaud.” He quips, but his tongue swipes across his bottom lip, soothing the tiniest cut from where teeth have dug in out of nerves. he’s learned to operate under pressure, to act even when afraid, but what was he meant to do when facing henry again? nothing in any book or debrief or exercise has prepared him for it. 

    Roman’s thumb brushed over the etching in the metal of the silver lighter he tried not to use these days. He leaned back against the car, eyes peering out over the horizon. He was a real piece of work, pursuing Henry, wasn’t he? He knew damn well that Henry was better off on his family’s land, secure, able to move past the chaos and demands of the field -- a field he still worried about him walking in. A god damn minefield.

       He exhaled, pocketing the lighter again before rolling onto his side, pushing off the car to grab the door. It wasn’t far now, there was no sense putting it off any longer. He needed Henry. He’d couldn’t navigate the mines without him. The rest of the drive was quiet, not that the first half had been filled with any real noise, only the crunch beneath the tires of the car as he headed out to find him. The breeze was soothing though, the sun trying to peek through grey clouds as the warmth caught his arm. He parked, fingers drumming against the steering wheel for a moment before finally climbing out. It had been too long. He missed him. Something raw nestled between his ribs, tongue pressed firmly to the roof of his mouth as he made his way up the path.

      He wanted to find Henry well, safe and sound in his family’s space. The thought of anything else was unacceptable. He refused to entertain it. Walking, his eyes scanned the grounds, knowing better than to just approach and knock without keeping sight of his surroundings. Henry might be retired, but he wasn’t stupid, and he was far from incapable of taking care of himself. He looped around the house, spotting the sheep first. They were well tended to by their shepherd, that much was evident from their visible health. Of course Henry was a natural at this. Their shepherd though, was nowhere in sight, though they were safe within the confines of the fence. Roman’s tongue shifted to press against the inside of his cheek as he considered where he might be.

       Realizing, Roman made his way toward the water, the lull of the waves against the shore, against rocks in the distance, calling him forward. There was something steady about the crunch of rock beneath his boot, but the ache in his chest refused to give way even for the familiar sounds and smells of the english countryside. He’d grown up nestled in the city, but it didn’t mean he never enjoyed his time outside of it. At long last he spotted that familiar dark hair, longer now it seemed than when he’d last seen him. Tension rolled off his shoulders as his lip quirked into amusement, taking the rare chance to simply observe him on the beach near the water. A part of him considered turning around, walking all the way back up to the farm, passing the sheep, and climbing right back into his car. He didn’t owe this Levi gentleman a damn thing. But, even if he chose not to speak a word about what was happening, he wanted to speak to Henry. His voice appeared too often in his dreams to keep him from seeking the chance to hear it in person again.

        His voice was clear enough to be heard from across the way, “David est-il revenu? Ton troupeau est magnifique.” He asked, eyes filling with a warmth that had been absent for some time as he came to a stop some paces away, eyes flicking between the sea and the good shepherd whose flock he’d admired just before.