[meme] one hundred katherine things | "In Langley, Virginia..."
[two]
Katherine Pierce | In Langley, Virginia... | Homeland (kind of)
a crossover drabble | pg
It’s three episodes of Homeland and the compulsion of approximately thirty nine separate individuals, ranging from senators to the head of the CIA himself, before she’s settling in behind a formidable wooden desk at Langley.
The view from her office is more offices, but she’s not complaining. Not yet. Because there’s a laptop and a cell phone and a perky blonde in a power suit to fetch her cups of bitter coffee or Xeroxed copies of paperwork she doesn’t yet fully understand.
And this, she thinks, is something she could get used to.
They laugh when she leaves, the Salvatores, the Gilberts, the Michaelsons. Make snide comments about the security of the western world hanging on the whims of the one person who’s never actually prioritised the safety of others, well, ever.
Though, personally, she thinks that makes her perfect for the position.
It takes until week seven, when she reconciles that Nicholas Brody is a fictional character unlikely to summon her into the backseat of his car for an illicit rendezvous, and that the counter-terrorism unit is not nearly as glamorous as she’d imagined, for her to compel her way back out of the role.
If she turns the perky blonde on a whim as she leaves, it is only because the insipid creature practically begs her to do it. All bright red lipstick and cheap shoes that clack, clack, clack on the tile floor as they exit.
Katherine Pierce | In Langley, Virginia... | Homeland (kind of)
a crossover drabble | pg
It’s three episodes of Homeland and the compulsion of approximately thirty nine separate individuals, ranging from senators to the head of the CIA himself, before she’s settling in behind a formidable wooden desk at Langley.
The view from her office is more offices, but she’s not complaining. Not yet. Because there’s a laptop and a cell phone and a perky blonde in a power suit to fetch her cups of bitter coffee or Xeroxed copies of paperwork she doesn’t yet fully understand.
And this, she thinks, is something she could get used to.
They laugh when she leaves, the Salvatores, the Gilberts, the Michaelsons. Make snide comments about the security of the western world hanging on the whims of the one person who’s never actually prioritised the safety of others, well, ever.
Though, personally, she thinks that makes her perfect for the position.
It takes until week seven, when she reconciles that Nicholas Brody is a fictional character unlikely to summon her into the backseat of his car for an illicit rendezvous, and that the counter-terrorism unit is not nearly as glamorous as she’d imagined, for her to compel her way back out of the role.
If she turns the perky blonde on a whim as she leaves, it is only because the insipid creature practically begs her to do it. All bright red lipstick and cheap shoes that clack, clack, clack on the tile floor as they exit.