#nctposh

@nctposh/ @lcgistics[text: Lane Boy] Aw, thanks.

[text: Lane Boy] I’ll keep that in mind.

He is going to be a little disappointed if this just turns out to be some sort of code phrase. He likes gyros, though for much the same reason he like most things. He is a man without ambition, but a great and diffuse affection. If it doesn’t try to kill him, he likes it ( and often especially even if it does ).

The man at the desk would be nondescript if it weren’t for the hair--pastel purple today, as a nod to the other man’s sensibilities; and the fact that there are currently three of him in the room. None of them are currently looking at Mr. Lane, though the one at the window and the one at the bookshelf at least have the far-off look that suggests they are paying more attention to what it is the other four of their number are up to.

Thompson’s voice is soft and does not quite match him as he runs his fingertips across the surface of the desk in slow patterns, nudging papers ever so slightly this way and that.

Government buildings have such a way of making her squirm, the only one even halfway safe being Thames House. This visit was a simple one, one that did not call for disciplinary action or stark measures against some threat. None of these facts still the stirring of her tea, nor the way her tongue dances in her mouth. All her training has kept her from climbing the walls or tapping the floor with her heels, but cannot stop her from less obvious tells.