But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game

SHE’S NEVER BEEN one to travel a lot in her freetime, unless her NIGHT JOB required it. a separate suitcase of her bulletproof gear and staff, less than 24 hours—she was never a fan of travelling for THAT job. there was another reason for long sleeves and layers of clothes; metallic bruises coloring her from almost head to toe—but when Red called, anastasia dropped everything to make time because god only knows when he’d be back. Raymond Reddington was a man on the move with his own agenda, sometimes anastasia was a part of it, and other times, he chose to leave her out and in the dark—chose to keep her safe and leave her under the radar like she was best at. if only he knew what she was up to nowadays. she’ll break the news to him gradually.

    she laughs, chipperly so as an infectious grin curled the corners of her lips. she had always been interested in his stories—travel, work—but those would come to surface when he was ready. small hands remaining snug around her coffee cup, thumbs graze the sides for some friction. anastasia doesn’t remember how long it was since she last saw Red. the last time—well, the circumstances could’ve been better. the way her lungs clenched, how PAIN, pins and needles tingled through her left arm—how he talked her through a near fatal heart attack—anything would’ve been better than that.

    her heart practically trembles at the thought, just as tongue swipes over her dry bottom lip. “ uh huh. ” another grin, a quirk of her brows, blue eyes would linger. taking him in; he doesn’t look tired, unlike herself—but he looks content, calm like always. makes her feel a little bit better around him. she always felt safe around Red—just like she did with MATT.

    “ i’ve never been to cuba, or out of the states since college. went to paris for new years once, but that was it. a lot colder than here. ” 

    sitting back with what looked to be mischief in her BIG BLUE eyes, the mutant would finally exhale a breathy chuckle. since he’s been gone, anastasia MET someone—-and with how Red was like the father figure she never had, in a way—anastasia wanted something similar to approval, or more like i met someone and he’s going to become a part of your life too when you ARE around. lips purse tight, those same petite hands setting down her coffee to lay palms flat on the table, revealing shades of CHROME on her paper pale knuckles. don’t worry, Red. she can hold her OWN, now. cue a pause for some dramatic effect, she finally found her words;

                                   “ —well, when you were away in cuba… i met someone. ”

[♠] |      Lips PURSE as hers have, only moments prior albeit in opposite context. A cautious man, he’s always been meticulous in the regular culling of the WEEDS in his midst — his allies; especially those close to his own vest, SECRETIVE, almost to a fault as he’s been reminded time and time again, ( but Dembe is a saint in frustration ) that it will end in tragedy.  The TRAGEDY is when matters come to pass to suggest that he’s been too generous with his inner workings to his own team, and meticulous is not nearly RIGOROUS enough.

            ❝ I know several stories that begin with that sentence. ❞  A rustle of the paper as the page turns.   ❝  All that mystery and          INTRIGUE, like the page out of a book, I’ve been thinking about Virginia Woolf, all of that promise, and the letter she wrote to her poor husband. She thought it was sacrifice. ❞  A few moments pause before he forces a jovial chuckle, head shaking as if BETRAYAL is nothing but a silly thought. As silly as the mythical PIPE dream of trust.

               she considers pettiness as an option for a moment, considers playing up past tension for the sake of appearances .  .  . he’s alright, really. not that the fact needs to become common knowledge. however, the more well - behaved part of her wins out in the end, a half - smile tilting her mouth as she offers him her full attention.     ❛ raymond reddington. quite a name, isn’t it ? —— mine is claire. hale, i guess i should add.  ❜  

[♠] |      ❝               Claire.  ❞  He weighs it on his tongue, that first taste, like he just wants to see how it SOUNDS, rolling off his soft lips which for all his masculinity, would appear to rival hers in the opposite. Claire. It suits her, he decides, deceptively soft for the deceptively soft; the concept is almost addicting.  Claire.  He likes that.   ❝  Do you ride,  Claire?  ❞

[♠] |     Trammelled digits come up to adjust the brim of his hat, one identifiable CONSTANT he is never willing to change. ( caps are charming for the moment, but not permanently ).  They sit at ADJACENT tables, an unlikely pair each one less alone than patrons notice. Depthless greys SKIM over the edges of the PAPERS in his hands at her thoroughly wrapped form.   

            ❝  Almost all absurdity of conduct comes from the imitation of those whom we cannot resemble. Now if one were to subscribe to that             I haven’t met a SINGLE person who isn’t.   ❞   

            The papers fold, fingers tapping lightly on hard surface. She reminds him of a BUNNY, particularly the ANIMATED myth, perpetuated to stereotype and lull children into a belief that a creature could be so joyful regardless. Small, with a fantastical dollop of spunk, upbeat and chipper qualities EMBODIED in the bouncing and the hopping.  Presently she is engaging in neither, but it seems to radiate from her in waves.  

           ❝  I’m not sure I find that comforting. ❞  Of late he has been causing wreckage of everything he’s touched. He’s trying to break the habit. But you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks.  Still he remains impassive, tongue roving the perimeter of his barely parted lips as he concocts a vague response.   ❝  I’ve been TRAVELLING.         Cuba’s horrible this time of year.  ❞  No comment is furthered on these people she speaks of. He wagers she’ll tell him even without due curiosity. It’s Ana after all.

i’m so pleased you feel this way, it’s a slow start and i’m working on new art for the blog, but i’m happy to be back, i appreciate it truly.

                ❛ my KALE —— ❜      a sharp intake of breath precedes eager acceptance, bag taken from his outstretched hand and deposited in the cart before an impromptu dance ensues, hands raising at it’s conclusion, words directed at the sky as she continues;

                ❛ oh, thank you, Bes —— ❜  gaze directs back to the man in front of her, a little out of breath from the gratitude jig, but she carries on.  ❛ that .  .  . that’s the egyptian god of luck. well, one of them, at least. i think. —— anyway, we’re on good terms, he and i. for now.  but you,  —— you have saved my smoothie. i mean, a kale and cucumber smoothie with no kale .  .  . i could just eat the cucumber, is what i’m saying. and what the hell fun is that.  ❜  

[♠] |     THEY COIL AND UNCOIL in his head; ornaments of banal truths in the mysteries of man that he has decoded and shredded in his time — made winding tapestries MARKED for perusal in that boundless tank of information he wields under a wide-brimmed hat. Even amidst the banal, housewives — homes for the elderly, the homeless, youth volunteers, he’s experienced his fair share of the weird and unexpected; a CONNOISSEUR of the ridiculous from SERBIA to west MOZAMBIQUE and so it is surprise at his own confusion that registers, at the wild flapping of arms like POULTRY parading in the delusion that its WINGS would ever be considered angelic.                                              what?

    The IMAGE is shaken off abruptly with a subtle shudder and subsequent endless albeit inconspicuous nodding, to replace with a readied response, talk about her hair, no — too generic, she might mistake it for SMALL talk and run with it. You never know with white, sufficiently comfortable Californians. 

       tell me why you followed me and what made you stay

        tell me why you followed me and what made you stay

              tell me why you followed me and what made you stay

               —— a brief flicker registers, a momentary STUTTER in control, unnoticeable to one who isn’t looking for it ; but she gleans the distinct impression that he is. still, it’s a raindrop in an empty bucket, no more than an atom’s worth of knowledge to add to whatever schema he’s concocting of her — paranoia suggests that he’s making a mental profile on her just as she is on him, and while her physical response was only a glimmer of discomfort, she hates that she gave even that little bit away .  .  .  she refuses to let her words make a bigger impression. she swallows the BITTER concession that springs first to her mind: it’s never mattered what dies in the process. it has never mattered what throat was cut or what canon misfired. what matters is the result. the union wins the war, the soviets defy time & biology. victory is victory, no matter the cost. 

               ❛ so who’s the bracelet for ? i have a feeling it’s not for your reenacting friend, as interesting as he sounds.    ❜  

[♠] |       She is emulating his HABITS; something he rarely anticipates. Rarely anticipated, but NEVER surprised. His own little gambit for evasion used so often, it’s become something of a brand           every dog has his own signature stench. She is not the first of course ( Elizabeth Keen seems to pick the most dire circumstance to remember to take a leaf out of a book he’s never wanted her to READ ) but he revels in the knowledge that she’s picked it up; a russian MAGPIE, how many more will she collect? The notion brings LAUGHTER soft as a baby’s breath, as he fingers his project, glancing down at delicate handiwork in almost earnest admiration almost as if he might for once give her the type of answer she wants. But that’s a small stake in the much larger pool — ocean of information she will have to claw her way to see a modicum of.   ❝  That’s why it never works. They teach history, ‘learning from our forefathers’ — how not to repeat mistakes, how to employ STRATEGY based on triumphs past, but the variables are based on chance. That’s how EMPIRES fall in a repeat of events; same story, different technology, different individuals. One small variable. There are a million different ways to fail, but the reverse doesn’t confine to one possible victory. ❞ 

         Aged features crease deeply with effort as he knots his masterpiece to completion and rises with lips pressed outwards, until he takes stock of her again with an abrupt smile, complete with an appraising head tilt.  ❝ It’s for you. ❞ It’s thrust rather ceremoniously albeit gently outwards.  ❝ Might help with the        facial constipation. RAINBOWS can do wonders, but I’m sure your countrymen would disagree. ❞ His tone is bright, as if he’s just given her the remedy to a common malady, that will change her outlook in one simple gesture, anointed with a compensating shrug at his own latter comment. ❝ Qui n’avance pas, recule. It sounds better in FRENCH. ❞  

adkfjldkgj thank you, i’ve been on hiatus for almost the entirety of 2016, but i shall be back soonish since the show’s starting again, and i appreciate that you took the time to send me this!

[♠] |          ❝   hey . . .  ❞  His body is angled toward her, fringe falling over brows, heavy-lidded; voice soft, but gravelly as if this is nothing but pillow talk, lulled in the comforting drone of the engine. It’s become apparent that they are now ‘ tour buddies ’  responsible for better or for worse. He won’t deny the earlier tension, but he’s eager to make this PAINLESS. If she’s willing. 

[♠] |      It’s always . . . the little things, they don’t expect. Concierge of crime ( ludicrous moniker, why not just call him BATMAN while you’re at it? ) in your average SUPERMARKET for example. Truth be told he’s never been too fond of California, but one does have to indulge in the monthly fix of PEOPLE magazine, it’s somehow comforting, his very own form of personal therapy, reading about people who have no idea. Raymond Reddington, waiting in line.

            No sooner has he paid, the cashier thrusts an extra item at him. No doubt left behind by the customer ahead of him in the line.  ❝ Excuse me. ❞

               —— she only purses her lips at first, gaze drawn to his task with a concentration almost equal to his own, if only to appreciate the ridiculousness of the action itself. to his credit, he’s gotten a fair amount done in the short time she’s been standing there  .  .  . which has already been a shade too long, in her opinion. she can be quite impatient, from time to time. still — she maintains what little she has in the way of manners, eyes shifting instead to focus on the brim of his hat, as his own gaze remains otherwise employed.    ❛ i sense a cleverly worded metaphor on the horizon —— or am i ascribing too much meaning to this particular installment of story time ?  ❜  

[♠] |         There is no indication that he has HEARD. His behaviour doesn’t seem to yield although one might imagine the SPACE he’s left in between words designates her response. BUT his lips spread a touch more, almost as if he is conceding, ( but truly, does he ever? )  those short — slow nods, she might as well be performing a one woman SYMPHONY he so enjoys. ❝ Poor BASTARD... he never got rid of the BLACKPOWDER stain out from under his nails. I fired a musket once two decades ago and still find a granule from time to time. ❞ His fingers pause, only for him to tilt his head the other way, ADMIRING his creation, whatever it is he is looking for, he allows himself a respite to gaze up at her, lips parting with such unadulterated JOY ( it never gets old does it? this trick ) she might as well be a daintily dressed teenager all ready for PROM.