(no subject)
On the back of a reciept from the St. Petersburg airport: Not sure what Drake's deal is. Hate Russia. V. strange night.
Similarly, on the back of a reciept from the Peruvian airport, as well as most of a napkin:Drake lonely? Cannot tell if flirting. Don't think so. V. real possibility he is lonely? Cannot tell. Cute dog. ball in his court. Will check up on in few days. Miss S.
With both teams safely back to their hotel, Sal emerges from her room and goes off in search of her mission team second in command. Scanning doors, she consults slightly smudged numbers on a scrap of paper pulled from her pocket, then shoves it back in her pocket. Stopping before what she believes to be the correctly numbered door, she knocks, then shoves her hands back in her suit-jacket's pockets, and rocks back on her heels to wait for an answer.
There's a few moments before the sounds of the lock unclicking can be heard. A moment later the door is pulled open and Bianca stands in the doorway, stripped down to her slacks and wife beater, hair up in a bun and a beer pressed into one hand. "Sal. What's up?"
A Bianca in the doorway is, perhaps, not what Sal was expecting, especially considering she pulls the paper back out of her pocket, eyes it, grunts, and then shoves it back again. "Bi. You free?"
"I was clearly not who you were expecting." Bianca observes, stepping back to invite Sal into the room. "There's beer on top of the fridge if you want it." she invites before waiting for Sal to enter and closing the door behind her. "I've got time. What's up?"
Sal does /not/ double check the lock behind her, though there is a twitch that indicates she very nearly does. "Got the numbers wrong. Was looking for Drake." Totally not for cuddles. "But I can just as easily ask you-- how'd things go, today?" She crosses the room to snag a beer off the top of the fridge, then lifts it in salute.
Clearly it's for the cuddles. Sorry, ain't gonna get no cuddles here. Bianca is not the type. Drinking however, she will happily indulge in. The top of her drink is tilted in a matching salute. "Not much to report, I'm afraid. The guy we spoke to knows more than he let on, but he kept a maid and some thugs on hand for the proper interruptions." She gestures to the bed stand. "Got some chocolate though."
Obviously, that just means that there will have to be more door-knocking going on tonight. Sal twists the cap off, tucking it into her pocket in an absent, habitual gesture. "I'm half inclined to say that you got the better end of the deal," she says as she drifts toward the chocolate. "We managed to get most of what we're looking for, but damn--" she shakes her head.
"I read the profiles of the kids you went with. A less than impressive bunch." Grabbing a piece of chocolate for herself, Bianca reclines on the bed, unwrapping it as she watches the other woman. "You look like you've got some off the record bitching to do. Bitch away. It'll stay in this room."
"Off the record," Sal reiterates, with a sharp slice of a smile in response to Bianca's understanding. Assuming that, as most little hotels provide, there is a chair for stealing, she steals it, turning it around so she can straddle it when she sits. Her bottle of beer is cradled between her hands, and she takes a drink before she answers. "They're not undercover agents," she says simply. "They're /really/ not. Valentine has all the subtlety of a drunk goat. If he hadn't been our contact-- let's just say he got the information, but I spent the whole meetup trying to figure out how to explain to Management how I'd managed to lose my entire team in a firefight." She sips again, then amends, "Not of my choosing."
Bianca is very understanding. Clearly. "Off the record." She assures again. There's silence as Bianca listens, lips drawing into a thin line. Yeah, that has to have sucked. "How the hell did they manage to be recruited if they don't have anything to offer to the group? And honestly, if they get shot due to their own stupidity...?" Is that so terrible?
"This is my I have no idea face," Sal answers, gesturing to it with her free hand. "Which is actually a lie: West was one of the Piper kids, who, as far as I am concerned, should have been shipped back home months ago. Valentine-- I think he accidentally got smuggled onto the base with Rasputin's cat, and is being kept--" she describes a lazy arc in the air, then lets her hand fall. Clearly, she has no idea why. "He's not bad in a fight, but thinking on his feet is not his strong suit. Emerson--" she lets the name hang, then sighs. "Got swept up in the wake of our last mission. This is the first I've worked with him."
"So in other words, you got either the new kids or the don't know what to do with their own ass kids. Nice." Bianca tips her bottle again, head shaking. "You're a stronger woman than me that you were able to put up with that shit." There's a snort. "Is there room for training? Or are they just going to forever act like new kids? Because if there's a chance for improvement, I wouldn't mind giving some pointers."
"In other words, yes," Sal admits with half a laugh. After another sip, she adds, "There is always room for /hope/," though her tone plainly indicates that she doesn't have much of it. "I was hoping you'd have more luck -- which is why I teamed you up the way I did. Drake's got the experience, you've got the know-how, and Wolfe knows how to follow orders. Sorry you didn't turn up shit." And there wasn't even any violence, either.
Bianca gives a shrug. "I'm recommending that they send in another team to go in and do some more at night, undercover shit. Maybe grab Alavarez and scare the shit out of him until he talks. But whether they'll do it or not, I can't predict." Gulps of beer are taken. "That team worked together flawlessly. So those were good picks on your part."
"I'll make sure the recommendation makes its way up, but--" she shrugs. Even as a team lead, there isn't much she can do beyond make suggestions. "I figured I could keep the idiot brigade in check." It is maaaybe slightly sly. "But, hopefully we'll get to work together soon." She is still only about halfway through with her beer, but she still swings out of the chair and gets to her feet. "I'm going to go see if I can find Drake, see if he has anything else to add. Thanks for the beer."
"You and me both. You and I work together and we'll show them what real team work looks like." Not to mention that's a lot of BAD ASS on one team. Bianca drains the last of her beer and tosses the empty in the trashcan by the side of the bed. "I should sleep anyway. I'll check you later, Sal."
They could name themselves TEAM BAD ASS, and it would be full of epic and win. "Early flight to Old Home in the morning. Definitely get some sleep now." With that to serve as goodbye, she lets herself out of the room; she waits in the hall until she is satisfied with the click of the lock engaging, then stalks off again, tapping the bottom of her bottle against her leg in idle rhythm.
Will is sitting in his room, writing down notes, frowning slightly. He sighs and grits his teeth while Scruff, his faithful companion with a black-furred patch over his eye, rests in the corner of the room. As someone approaches the door Scruff's head looks up and Will says, "Door's unlocked," loud enough for people outside it to hear.
Scruff is a mutt with curly hair and a large black patch over his eye. His ears are sort of like a terrier's and his tail is a little shaggy. He's the most adorable son of a bitch to have ever been born.
Still a bit jet-lagged though not entirely stupid, Sal scuffs to a halt with her fist raised halfway to the door as Will calls out. She has at least changed out of her last mission's suit, unrelieved black of shirt and tie and slacks and jacket replaced with more comfortable fare. Sadly, she does not come bearing gifts. She opens the door and steps inside, closing the door behind her with a solid click, then leaning against it, weight braced by her shoulders. The mutt is, it must be admitted, something of a surprise. "Hey, boy," she greets, lowering a hand for him to sniff, if he is so curious. "This why your bed was so lonely in Russia, Drake?"
Scruff grins, doggishly, and rushes over toward Sal. He sniffs and licks the offered hand, then scoots around her legs and sniffs her feet, pants, et. all. After his inspection, though, he trots back over to his corner. Will looks slightly surprised, but defaults to grinning after a moment. "Oh, yeah. Maybe. Scruff and me, we're buddies." Scruff pants cutely. "But he doesn't sleep with me. He can't get used to beds."
Sal is quick and clever, and manages to get in a few good scritches before Scruff bounds away. "Wouldn't have taken you for the furry animal companion type," she admits. rubbing her hands against her pants in a quick, efficient motion to rid them of lingering momentos of Scruff's affection. "Mission reports?" she asks of his notes, tipping a curious glance at his paperwork. She still hasn't moved from the door.
"Eh," Will replies. "Personal notes. Frustrating time, really," he replies. He glances up, adding, "You can come in. I mean, come in. Grab a seat over here." He pats the bed and begins to order his papers with a frown. Scruff pants happily and curls up on his dogbed. He watches Sal curiously.
Curiousity over the contents of his notes wings Sal's eyebrows upward a fraction, but she doesn't pry. Instead, she pushes off away from the door and crosses the room at his invitation, and settles at the end of the bed. Her feet are tucked up, and she wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees as she watches him order his papers. Scruff is, alas, ignored.
Will grins and says, "What's the matter? Shy?" he groups all the papers together and sets them over to the side. Then he lays down. "How'd your day go?" he asks, leaning on an elbow so that he can watch her. "Ours was... foiled by a slick mother fucker who was dirtier than dirt."
"Jet-lagged," Sal answers simply, opting for the truth rather than pretty words. When Will stretches out beside her, she eyes him like moving would be /admitting/ something. So she doesn't, save to shift so that she is facing him. "Went looking for you in Peru, found Moretti instead. She said as much." She mulls over his question for a moment, then sighs. "You were right, by the way. Idiot brigade duty sucked, but we got the intel we needed. And if you say I told you so, I am kicking you out of your own bed for the night."
Will grins up at Sal. "Well. At least you weren't shot," he remarks. He's silent for awhile, watching her, breathing evenly. Eventually, though, he rolls a bit so that he's almost on his back. "Moretti did well. We all did. I mean, all things considered, it went well. No one did anything stupid."
"At least they didn't get us shot," she agrees, finally unfolding to stretch out beside him. "You made a solid team. I'm sorry your investigation was a bust." She is, actually, terribly sincere.
Will wraps an arm around Sal and lazily lets it hang off her waist. "So are you staying here tonight?" he asks with a grin. "If you do, I could be persuaded to give you most of the covers."
It looks like actually /admitting/ that she /plans/ on staying, despite the fact that she's the one who showed up, sat down, and stretched out on the bed, is slightly beyond Sal at the moment. So she just grumbles, "Persuaded isn't really the key, here. They'll end up mine whether you want them to or not."
Will grins at the grumpy Sal and moves to pull her up toward pillows and covers and warm snuggles. He pulls the sheets down for her and gives her an extra pillow, then gives them both time to adjust while he pushes his sox off. Afterward, he gets back in and prepares to sleep. "How's that?" he asks.
It is a little unnerving, how /nice/ and /considerate/ Will is being, after all. Instead of settling Sal, it just gets her all prickly again, and by the time Will is settling back in she is glaring at him like a cat who has just been thrust outside into a storm with nowhere to run for cover. "Fine," she snaps, followed by, "you talk too much," as she fits an arm around his waist and hitches her leg up against his.
Will laughs softly. "See you tomorrow." He closes his eyes and slips an arm under his pillow and over her waist, too, before quickly trying to snooze. Scruff stays over in his corner, watching, before finally rolling on his side and shutting his eyes.
Sal doesn't relax until Will has already drifted off; there is something slightly melancholy in the way she tucks her head against his chest and curls closer, before allowing herself to drift off. What follows is soon becoming pattern: she snores, alas, and by morning she has stolen all of the covers, wrapepd them around her like a cocoon from which only head and arms protrude. (One arm is, still, snugged tight around Will.)
Similarly, on the back of a reciept from the Peruvian airport, as well as most of a napkin:Drake lonely? Cannot tell if flirting. Don't think so. V. real possibility he is lonely? Cannot tell. Cute dog. ball in his court. Will check up on in few days. Miss S.
With both teams safely back to their hotel, Sal emerges from her room and goes off in search of her mission team second in command. Scanning doors, she consults slightly smudged numbers on a scrap of paper pulled from her pocket, then shoves it back in her pocket. Stopping before what she believes to be the correctly numbered door, she knocks, then shoves her hands back in her suit-jacket's pockets, and rocks back on her heels to wait for an answer.
There's a few moments before the sounds of the lock unclicking can be heard. A moment later the door is pulled open and Bianca stands in the doorway, stripped down to her slacks and wife beater, hair up in a bun and a beer pressed into one hand. "Sal. What's up?"
A Bianca in the doorway is, perhaps, not what Sal was expecting, especially considering she pulls the paper back out of her pocket, eyes it, grunts, and then shoves it back again. "Bi. You free?"
"I was clearly not who you were expecting." Bianca observes, stepping back to invite Sal into the room. "There's beer on top of the fridge if you want it." she invites before waiting for Sal to enter and closing the door behind her. "I've got time. What's up?"
Sal does /not/ double check the lock behind her, though there is a twitch that indicates she very nearly does. "Got the numbers wrong. Was looking for Drake." Totally not for cuddles. "But I can just as easily ask you-- how'd things go, today?" She crosses the room to snag a beer off the top of the fridge, then lifts it in salute.
Clearly it's for the cuddles. Sorry, ain't gonna get no cuddles here. Bianca is not the type. Drinking however, she will happily indulge in. The top of her drink is tilted in a matching salute. "Not much to report, I'm afraid. The guy we spoke to knows more than he let on, but he kept a maid and some thugs on hand for the proper interruptions." She gestures to the bed stand. "Got some chocolate though."
Obviously, that just means that there will have to be more door-knocking going on tonight. Sal twists the cap off, tucking it into her pocket in an absent, habitual gesture. "I'm half inclined to say that you got the better end of the deal," she says as she drifts toward the chocolate. "We managed to get most of what we're looking for, but damn--" she shakes her head.
"I read the profiles of the kids you went with. A less than impressive bunch." Grabbing a piece of chocolate for herself, Bianca reclines on the bed, unwrapping it as she watches the other woman. "You look like you've got some off the record bitching to do. Bitch away. It'll stay in this room."
"Off the record," Sal reiterates, with a sharp slice of a smile in response to Bianca's understanding. Assuming that, as most little hotels provide, there is a chair for stealing, she steals it, turning it around so she can straddle it when she sits. Her bottle of beer is cradled between her hands, and she takes a drink before she answers. "They're not undercover agents," she says simply. "They're /really/ not. Valentine has all the subtlety of a drunk goat. If he hadn't been our contact-- let's just say he got the information, but I spent the whole meetup trying to figure out how to explain to Management how I'd managed to lose my entire team in a firefight." She sips again, then amends, "Not of my choosing."
Bianca is very understanding. Clearly. "Off the record." She assures again. There's silence as Bianca listens, lips drawing into a thin line. Yeah, that has to have sucked. "How the hell did they manage to be recruited if they don't have anything to offer to the group? And honestly, if they get shot due to their own stupidity...?" Is that so terrible?
"This is my I have no idea face," Sal answers, gesturing to it with her free hand. "Which is actually a lie: West was one of the Piper kids, who, as far as I am concerned, should have been shipped back home months ago. Valentine-- I think he accidentally got smuggled onto the base with Rasputin's cat, and is being kept--" she describes a lazy arc in the air, then lets her hand fall. Clearly, she has no idea why. "He's not bad in a fight, but thinking on his feet is not his strong suit. Emerson--" she lets the name hang, then sighs. "Got swept up in the wake of our last mission. This is the first I've worked with him."
"So in other words, you got either the new kids or the don't know what to do with their own ass kids. Nice." Bianca tips her bottle again, head shaking. "You're a stronger woman than me that you were able to put up with that shit." There's a snort. "Is there room for training? Or are they just going to forever act like new kids? Because if there's a chance for improvement, I wouldn't mind giving some pointers."
"In other words, yes," Sal admits with half a laugh. After another sip, she adds, "There is always room for /hope/," though her tone plainly indicates that she doesn't have much of it. "I was hoping you'd have more luck -- which is why I teamed you up the way I did. Drake's got the experience, you've got the know-how, and Wolfe knows how to follow orders. Sorry you didn't turn up shit." And there wasn't even any violence, either.
Bianca gives a shrug. "I'm recommending that they send in another team to go in and do some more at night, undercover shit. Maybe grab Alavarez and scare the shit out of him until he talks. But whether they'll do it or not, I can't predict." Gulps of beer are taken. "That team worked together flawlessly. So those were good picks on your part."
"I'll make sure the recommendation makes its way up, but--" she shrugs. Even as a team lead, there isn't much she can do beyond make suggestions. "I figured I could keep the idiot brigade in check." It is maaaybe slightly sly. "But, hopefully we'll get to work together soon." She is still only about halfway through with her beer, but she still swings out of the chair and gets to her feet. "I'm going to go see if I can find Drake, see if he has anything else to add. Thanks for the beer."
"You and me both. You and I work together and we'll show them what real team work looks like." Not to mention that's a lot of BAD ASS on one team. Bianca drains the last of her beer and tosses the empty in the trashcan by the side of the bed. "I should sleep anyway. I'll check you later, Sal."
They could name themselves TEAM BAD ASS, and it would be full of epic and win. "Early flight to Old Home in the morning. Definitely get some sleep now." With that to serve as goodbye, she lets herself out of the room; she waits in the hall until she is satisfied with the click of the lock engaging, then stalks off again, tapping the bottom of her bottle against her leg in idle rhythm.
Will is sitting in his room, writing down notes, frowning slightly. He sighs and grits his teeth while Scruff, his faithful companion with a black-furred patch over his eye, rests in the corner of the room. As someone approaches the door Scruff's head looks up and Will says, "Door's unlocked," loud enough for people outside it to hear.
Scruff is a mutt with curly hair and a large black patch over his eye. His ears are sort of like a terrier's and his tail is a little shaggy. He's the most adorable son of a bitch to have ever been born.
Still a bit jet-lagged though not entirely stupid, Sal scuffs to a halt with her fist raised halfway to the door as Will calls out. She has at least changed out of her last mission's suit, unrelieved black of shirt and tie and slacks and jacket replaced with more comfortable fare. Sadly, she does not come bearing gifts. She opens the door and steps inside, closing the door behind her with a solid click, then leaning against it, weight braced by her shoulders. The mutt is, it must be admitted, something of a surprise. "Hey, boy," she greets, lowering a hand for him to sniff, if he is so curious. "This why your bed was so lonely in Russia, Drake?"
Scruff grins, doggishly, and rushes over toward Sal. He sniffs and licks the offered hand, then scoots around her legs and sniffs her feet, pants, et. all. After his inspection, though, he trots back over to his corner. Will looks slightly surprised, but defaults to grinning after a moment. "Oh, yeah. Maybe. Scruff and me, we're buddies." Scruff pants cutely. "But he doesn't sleep with me. He can't get used to beds."
Sal is quick and clever, and manages to get in a few good scritches before Scruff bounds away. "Wouldn't have taken you for the furry animal companion type," she admits. rubbing her hands against her pants in a quick, efficient motion to rid them of lingering momentos of Scruff's affection. "Mission reports?" she asks of his notes, tipping a curious glance at his paperwork. She still hasn't moved from the door.
"Eh," Will replies. "Personal notes. Frustrating time, really," he replies. He glances up, adding, "You can come in. I mean, come in. Grab a seat over here." He pats the bed and begins to order his papers with a frown. Scruff pants happily and curls up on his dogbed. He watches Sal curiously.
Curiousity over the contents of his notes wings Sal's eyebrows upward a fraction, but she doesn't pry. Instead, she pushes off away from the door and crosses the room at his invitation, and settles at the end of the bed. Her feet are tucked up, and she wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees as she watches him order his papers. Scruff is, alas, ignored.
Will grins and says, "What's the matter? Shy?" he groups all the papers together and sets them over to the side. Then he lays down. "How'd your day go?" he asks, leaning on an elbow so that he can watch her. "Ours was... foiled by a slick mother fucker who was dirtier than dirt."
"Jet-lagged," Sal answers simply, opting for the truth rather than pretty words. When Will stretches out beside her, she eyes him like moving would be /admitting/ something. So she doesn't, save to shift so that she is facing him. "Went looking for you in Peru, found Moretti instead. She said as much." She mulls over his question for a moment, then sighs. "You were right, by the way. Idiot brigade duty sucked, but we got the intel we needed. And if you say I told you so, I am kicking you out of your own bed for the night."
Will grins up at Sal. "Well. At least you weren't shot," he remarks. He's silent for awhile, watching her, breathing evenly. Eventually, though, he rolls a bit so that he's almost on his back. "Moretti did well. We all did. I mean, all things considered, it went well. No one did anything stupid."
"At least they didn't get us shot," she agrees, finally unfolding to stretch out beside him. "You made a solid team. I'm sorry your investigation was a bust." She is, actually, terribly sincere.
Will wraps an arm around Sal and lazily lets it hang off her waist. "So are you staying here tonight?" he asks with a grin. "If you do, I could be persuaded to give you most of the covers."
It looks like actually /admitting/ that she /plans/ on staying, despite the fact that she's the one who showed up, sat down, and stretched out on the bed, is slightly beyond Sal at the moment. So she just grumbles, "Persuaded isn't really the key, here. They'll end up mine whether you want them to or not."
Will grins at the grumpy Sal and moves to pull her up toward pillows and covers and warm snuggles. He pulls the sheets down for her and gives her an extra pillow, then gives them both time to adjust while he pushes his sox off. Afterward, he gets back in and prepares to sleep. "How's that?" he asks.
It is a little unnerving, how /nice/ and /considerate/ Will is being, after all. Instead of settling Sal, it just gets her all prickly again, and by the time Will is settling back in she is glaring at him like a cat who has just been thrust outside into a storm with nowhere to run for cover. "Fine," she snaps, followed by, "you talk too much," as she fits an arm around his waist and hitches her leg up against his.
Will laughs softly. "See you tomorrow." He closes his eyes and slips an arm under his pillow and over her waist, too, before quickly trying to snooze. Scruff stays over in his corner, watching, before finally rolling on his side and shutting his eyes.
Sal doesn't relax until Will has already drifted off; there is something slightly melancholy in the way she tucks her head against his chest and curls closer, before allowing herself to drift off. What follows is soon becoming pattern: she snores, alas, and by morning she has stolen all of the covers, wrapepd them around her like a cocoon from which only head and arms protrude. (One arm is, still, snugged tight around Will.)