#ncnducor

                                                     ❛ &. ┊     “  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.  

“ intimidation is a form of weakness and i, for one, am not weak. “ 

a pout is greeting her ( she expected as much ), accompanied by a quiet accusation. she is upset and that rightfully so, is angry about the no show or well, late show. ‘ I have pizza and wine. ’ she offers, as a way of an apology. ‘ work. ’ she adds, with a heavy sigh escaping from her lips, a pout of her own on red painted lips. ‘ I got held up in a meeting. ’ she’d meant to be home earlier, had meant to pick her up from the airport actually. she’d send an apology text along with a driver to pick her up instead, promising her to be home around five. it was past ten now, that worked out well.

the pizza carton lands on the couch table, the bottle right beside it, before she ventures into the kitchen to get them glasses and plates. she pours a glass for each ( she didn’t feel like mixing a martini ). she hands esther her glass before she joins her on the comfortable couch. ‘I missed you ’ she breathes, fingers reaching out to tug a loose curl out of easter’s features.

‘ I apologize for letting you wait baby—- ’ apologize from her were rare, esther knew that, knew that emily seldom apologized if at all ‘ will you let me make it up to you? ’

                    𝑺𝑯𝑬 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑺 𝑻𝑶 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝒀 𝑷𝑰𝑺𝑺𝑬𝑫,   wants to let emily feel bad about her tardiness.   but,   her facade is betrayed by the faint smile that briefly crawls to her lips.   the aroma that drifted off the pizza was enough to make her stomach rumble.   though her flight wasn’t long,   she hadn’t had anything to eat since after she had left the airport.   even then,   it was disappointing and overpriced.   this was a good call on emily’s part.

                    still,   esther understands the nature of emily’s work.   or,   at least she thinks she does.   it was much different from her own,   esther was virtually her own boss.   she made her own schedules and unlike emily,   she was never late to anything.   not that she’s bitter.   maybe a little,   but it would soon be forgotten once she got food in her.