[He sighs, irritated, but he doesn't treat Caspar to a blistering shove it up your arse and never order me around again type response. It's still all there in the sigh. Caspar will be able to tell.]
Same street. Five blocks, then a right. The warehouse behind the dye shop. [And--] I don't like-- mixing. Or Marisol conspiring, which would be fucking inevitable.
[Maybe. But no is the right answer, and Nikos stares at the wall opposite of where he is crouched, beside the dead body in the warehouse. There is a stain there on the wall, a faint blue, like a strange cold blush. Comes of working with dyes, probably. He keeps fixed on it so he doesn't distract himself imagining Caspar's face. Caspar's face comes to him anyways. Remarkable, wonderful, handsome, convincing in the way he smiles. Fuck, is what he does not say. It's all so unfair.
Instead, he says--]
No. [--again, unnecessarily, and a little more quietly. And this part isn't a test; it's more like a kind of joke:] But if you were going to assume an identity. What would it be.
[ Thoughtful, like he's taking the question very seriously. ]
A disgraced Templar, perhaps. Tired and noble, and committed to redemption by way of serving the Inquisition. I'd say a current Templar, if only for the dramatics, but as we've yet to find any uniforms left behind in our tower...
[ Is hot Templar roleplay a running joke now?? mAYBE
and also for some pretense at real spy work, an ETA: ]
[ Don't get too cozy with your corpse, pal. And the thought hadn't occurred to him before now, somehow, but: ]
Is his face no longer identifiable?
[ It's possible that the ring is just part of the job. People can be specific. If not, there's bound to be a story behind an assassination that's ruined a man's face. ]
[ like an 'interesting' hm, not a judgy hm. Flare and intimidation are part and parcel of being an effective spy, honestly, so the excuse isn't totally thin. ]
Emphasis is important. Give me a moment.
[ Two blocks is quickly one, and then he's busier checking to make sure nobody sees him approaching the warehouse than flirting over the crystal. There are a few silent minutes, then the sound of a heavy door, overwhelmingly loud in the quiet building. As soon as it settles, there's a short whistle — a decent imitation of a songbird, and a classic call and answer. Because calling out people's names is boring. And you know, traps or whatever. ]
But ultimately not worth being caught for. Though he knows Caspar must be nearly arrived, Nikos still tenses up at the sound of the door. His hand closes tight around his knife.
Then he relaxes, when he hears the whistle. Without self-consciousness, he gives the answering whistle. Not nearly as skilled at it. It's a mating call, Caspar had told him, once, and Nikos had scowled, because that's what he does when anyone says anything to him. It's the inside that counts, that feels differently; the soft stupid heart and spleen or whatever.
He's on his feet when Caspar tracks the whistle to him. The corpse is quite dead. A big man, taller than either of them, and broad-shouldered. His fine clothes look a little less fine now that they're covered in mud and warehouse dust and sweat, from the running he did. Face-down in a pool of his own blood. His cut throat is likewise concealed.]
[ Caspar nudges at the corpse with a foot, mostly out of habit. ] Yes, well. It'd be a shame if this work ever got boring.
[ In more ways than one, maybe, because perhaps there's something to be said for how incredibly routine this situation feels. Caspar pulls a cloth from his belt, unwrapping the ring as he smoothly drops down to one knee — making a point to step slightly away from the corpse, first. Then he offers the ring up to Nikos, smiling in a way that's more teasing than sincere. ]
Your ring.
[ Just kidding. Probably. It isn't like they can keep the ring. ]
[Repeated exposure often breeds a kind of immunity. A little bit of poison that you drink every day, to build up your tolerance.
There's nothing like that, for Caspar. That showy stupid way that he offers the ring--on one knee, no less, and Nikos' traitor heart jolts in his chest. He curls his hand around his knife again. This time it's reflexive, the way another man might reach for a holy symbol.
To combat these feeling:]
His ring. [Pedantic. And also--] You really think you're funny, don't you.
Edited (i'm tired and also is this a marriage proposal) 2018-11-11 06:49 (UTC)
yes they are now married under spy law i just made up
[ Accompanied by a full-fledged grin, though he has the mercy to take the spotlight off of Nikos while he stews. Already crouched, it's easy for him to lift the body's hand, take a moment to determine which large finger has been marked by a ring, then put everything back where it belongs.
[He puts his back against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. Easier than kneeling down and getting face-to-face with Caspar over the corpse.]
Other than I want to have a fucking wash after chasing this arsehole halfway around this stinking city. I don't see why you're asking. You've got that ring back on him already, and that's the last of it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ Nothing worth mentioning, anyway. ]
I would say only good things. Focus, please— where should I deliver the ring?
no subject
Same street. Five blocks, then a right. The warehouse behind the dye shop. [And--] I don't like-- mixing. Or Marisol conspiring, which would be fucking inevitable.
no subject
[ Is this a real question or just A Test?? Who knows. I'm not saying, which means it's definitely A Test. ]
no subject
[Maybe. But no is the right answer, and Nikos stares at the wall opposite of where he is crouched, beside the dead body in the warehouse. There is a stain there on the wall, a faint blue, like a strange cold blush. Comes of working with dyes, probably. He keeps fixed on it so he doesn't distract himself imagining Caspar's face. Caspar's face comes to him anyways. Remarkable, wonderful, handsome, convincing in the way he smiles. Fuck, is what he does not say. It's all so unfair.
Instead, he says--]
No. [--again, unnecessarily, and a little more quietly. And this part isn't a test; it's more like a kind of joke:] But if you were going to assume an identity. What would it be.
[hot spy flirting]
no subject
[ Thoughtful, like he's taking the question very seriously. ]
A disgraced Templar, perhaps. Tired and noble, and committed to redemption by way of serving the Inquisition. I'd say a current Templar, if only for the dramatics, but as we've yet to find any uniforms left behind in our tower...
[ Is hot Templar roleplay a running joke now?? mAYBE
and also for some pretense at real spy work, an ETA: ]
Four blocks.
no subject
Which means that he's smiling at a corpse but, like, whatever.]
'Four Blocks' is not a convincing Templar name.
no subject
[ Don't get too cozy with your corpse, pal. And the thought hadn't occurred to him before now, somehow, but: ]
Is his face no longer identifiable?
[ It's possible that the ring is just part of the job. People can be specific. If not, there's bound to be a story behind an assassination that's ruined a man's face. ]
no subject
[Well. He reaches forward to grip the corpse by the hair and pull it back a little, to reexamine for himself.]
He fell from a distance. It's not the worse I've seen. [And, lest there be any critique--] The ring is mostly for emphasis.
no subject
[ like an 'interesting' hm, not a judgy hm. Flare and intimidation are part and parcel of being an effective spy, honestly, so the excuse isn't totally thin. ]
Emphasis is important. Give me a moment.
[ Two blocks is quickly one, and then he's busier checking to make sure nobody sees him approaching the warehouse than flirting over the crystal. There are a few silent minutes, then the sound of a heavy door, overwhelmingly loud in the quiet building. As soon as it settles, there's a short whistle — a decent imitation of a songbird, and a classic call and answer. Because calling out people's names is boring. And you know, traps or whatever. ]
no subject
But ultimately not worth being caught for. Though he knows Caspar must be nearly arrived, Nikos still tenses up at the sound of the door. His hand closes tight around his knife.
Then he relaxes, when he hears the whistle. Without self-consciousness, he gives the answering whistle. Not nearly as skilled at it. It's a mating call, Caspar had told him, once, and Nikos had scowled, because that's what he does when anyone says anything to him. It's the inside that counts, that feels differently; the soft stupid heart and spleen or whatever.
He's on his feet when Caspar tracks the whistle to him. The corpse is quite dead. A big man, taller than either of them, and broad-shouldered. His fine clothes look a little less fine now that they're covered in mud and warehouse dust and sweat, from the running he did. Face-down in a pool of his own blood. His cut throat is likewise concealed.]
He was a bitch to bring down.
[Complaining, as always.]
no subject
[ In more ways than one, maybe, because perhaps there's something to be said for how incredibly routine this situation feels. Caspar pulls a cloth from his belt, unwrapping the ring as he smoothly drops down to one knee — making a point to step slightly away from the corpse, first. Then he offers the ring up to Nikos, smiling in a way that's more teasing than sincere. ]
Your ring.
[ Just kidding. Probably. It isn't like they can keep the ring. ]
no subject
There's nothing like that, for Caspar. That showy stupid way that he offers the ring--on one knee, no less, and Nikos' traitor heart jolts in his chest. He curls his hand around his knife again. This time it's reflexive, the way another man might reach for a holy symbol.
To combat these feeling:]
His ring. [Pedantic. And also--] You really think you're funny, don't you.
yes they are now married under spy law i just made up
[ Accompanied by a full-fledged grin, though he has the mercy to take the spotlight off of Nikos while he stews. Already crouched, it's easy for him to lift the body's hand, take a moment to determine which large finger has been marked by a ring, then put everything back where it belongs.
Idly, as he works: ]
Are you in a hurry?
but did he go to spy jareds
[He puts his back against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. Easier than kneeling down and getting face-to-face with Caspar over the corpse.]
Other than I want to have a fucking wash after chasing this arsehole halfway around this stinking city. I don't see why you're asking. You've got that ring back on him already, and that's the last of it.