watching_you | OOM: Suite 130

"Oh good. Now we've all met."

She crosses her arms, giving Indy a pointed look. Meanwhile she does her best to keep between them -- partially because she's slightly worried Mills might go accountant on Indy if he starts picking up too much bad voodoo.

"Now that that's done, we can all move on with our lives."

"So soon?" Indy returns.

"But I haven't had a chance to judge him and take embarrassing amounts of offense at his lifestyle yet."

For what it's worth, he does shoot Mills a wink on the back of that.

A light bulb goes off in Mills' head.

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that if I were you," he drawls in an amiable tone. "There'll be time enough for that later."

He smirks at Indy, and places a hand gently in the small of Veronica's back.

Well now.

This is probably as much of a train wreck as one conversation can be, isn't it?

Veronica can still feel the weight of the heavy file, tucked into the bend of one arm; her fingers tighten around it without her really thinking about it.

"We're leaving now," she says firmly. To Mills, it's on the verge of being a command. To Indy, it's a warning.

"Fair enough," Indy chuckles, in reply to both comments.

He gives Mills a nod. "Nice to meetcha."

And to Veronica he rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Later, Vee. Whenever you're ready to finish our tennis match, I'm game."

With that, he starts heading off down the corridor.

Mills lets him go with a small nod.

He looks back to Veronica with a raised eyebrow.

As soon as Indy's out of earshot, Veronica grits her teeth and mutters, "What an ass. I totally won that game and he knows it."

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and counts to five in a whisper. When this is done and she finally opens her eyes again, she seems calmer -- but not much.

"Right. As I was saying before we were interrupted, here's the place."

She sets to shuffling in her purse for the keys.

Mills looks back down the corridor and then back at Veronica, wondering slightly just what it is he's doing here. He steps back, taking his hand away from the small of her back and acutely aware of the fact that he had been touching her for more than a moment's passing.

"I take it that's your 'friend'? And the file is on the woman he's seeing?"

It's not until Mills moves away that Veronica realizes just how close he'd been. She'd spent the whole encounter so focused on Indy that she didn't even...

Well, shoulda woulda coulda.

"Yeah, that's the big idiot himself. Indiana Jones and I," with sarcasm, "BFF!"

Keys located, she unlocks and pushes open the door. One hand snakes inside to flip on a light, then she steps back to let Mills through first.

Right inside the doors there's a small front hall, bordered by the sliding doors of a large closet on the right, and continuing a few paces to the left, where two more doors mark the entrances to the bedroom and bathroom, respectively. Straight ahead the hall opens up into the living room; from the front door a couch, entertainment centre, coffee table, and a couple of bookshelves can be seen before the room ends with sliding glass doors to the balcony.

He pauses at the end of the hall, his eyes moving over the room, noting details. Not nearly as spartan as his own accommodations, he notices. But not as decorator perfect as he remembered Lenora's apartment being. (Why that comparison springs to mind, he doesn't care to examine too closely.) His eyes scan over the window and then the rest of the room, part of him wanting to clear the rest of the apartment.

When he turns back to her, his expression is one of concern.

"He's seeing an ex-IRA operative and you're concerned for his safety. Why on earth would you think I would disapprove of this? He's probably shared your disapproval with her, and potentially made you a target."

He gives her a stern look and holds out his hand for the file.

Veronica steps just inside, pushing the door shut behind her and locking it, instinctively.

Turning back to Mills, she frowns. "Well, let her try. And anyway you're the one that started going on about 'no business in the bar'."

She stands firmly where she is, and makes no move to give him the folder.

"There's business, and then there's enlightened self-interest." His tone expresses his disdain for slavishly following rules that controvert basic common sense.

"I'm serious, Veronica. At least let me do a preliminary threat assessment. Then you'll know how likely she is to 'try.'"

Veronica shakes her head. It's not so much a sentiment of 'no' as an expression of disbelief.

"I was showing you the file and you did disapprove, which is why I put it away in the first place. Why change your mind?"

"I wasn't -- I didn't disapprove, so much as I was baffled that you would abuse your investigatory powers so openly. You struck me as an idealist. Me? I'm a pragmatist. If there's a threat, I want to know as much as I can about it as possible before it becomes an issue."

He closes the distance between them, the stern look softening into one of concern. His voice gentles as well. "Surely you don't think I'm going to stand here and do nothing while this hangs over your head."

Her expression softens as well, and she lets out a quiet laugh as she looks up (and up) at him.

"Idealist? Really? Oh brother."

She takes the folder from under her arm and holds it up between them.

"And don't call me 'Shirley'."

"I'll call you anything you like," he answers as his hands close around the file. And then he's moving to the bar in the kitchen where he can sit and look through it.

"There's nothing wrong with being an idealist. The world needs idealists. Hell, your girl here probably thinks of herself as an idealist." He certainly hopes not, because those are the worst kind. The ones that think they're Doing The Right Thing.

He flips the file open and starts skimming, entirely in his element. After a moment he pauses, looking up at her with an intent gaze, his tone teasing. "This kind of work goes better with beer, you know."

Veronica, meanwhile, has hung her blazer in the closet and tossed her purse somewhere by the coffee table. She moves past him, into the kitchen itself, as he mentions a drink.

"Yes, well, you've kind of ruined our game by taking that, haven't you? Meanwhile I've not gained any great insight into matters of national security. So I don't think you'll be getting beer."

Across the bar from him, she ducks down, rummaging for a moment on a shelf he can't see. When she appears again she's holding two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila.

Mills laughs and looks up from the file.

And freezes.

"Tequila? Did we pass the close enough to tell blond jokes somewhere on the stairs and I missed it?" He's trying to joke, but there's a hint of bafflement in his voice.

Veronica gives him a look.

"What, we don't have to be friends to drink beer but we do to drink hard liquor? It's just a drink, Mills. One that I happen to enjoy."

She pours herself a shot, then pauses, holding the bottle above the second glass as she casts him and inquiring glance.

"That is not just liquor. That's tequila. Generally reserved for after we've actually been shot at."

He looks at the glass and back in her face. "Go ahead, but I warn you, if you trying to get me drunk and take advantage, I'm telling... someone, who might care." He trails off feebly, laughing nervously.

She holds his gaze for a moment longer than might strictly be comfortable, her expression unreadable.

"No. I wouldn't do that."

Then she pours the shot, and places it in front of him.

In a much lighter tone, "I do, however, still want to know why it is you don't like to drink in public. I've got a number of theories, but the one I'm hoping for right now is the outside chance it has to do with a hidden affinity for karaoke."

She lifts her glass. "Cheers."

The hesitation does not go unnoticed.

"Cheers," he echoes, taking the shot glass and touching the rim to hers. He holds her gaze as he drinks it in two swallows. There is no wincing or coughing, so she can surmise it's not that he can't hold his liquor.

"I have never sang karaoke and I don't intend to start this late in life." He goes back to skimming the file, idly wishing he had a beer. "And I don't drink in public because I have what Lenora likes to call 'control issues.'" There's a bit of a growl in that.

Veronica downs hers in one, as easily as milk. Tequila was a careful choice, here: she's used to it, knows exactly how much she can take and exactly how it will affect her.

From Mills' reaction, he probably doesn't have the liquor down to such a science.

She rests her hand on the bottle, but doesn't lift or move it. To Mills, she asks, "What sort of control issues?"

Unless he says 'anger management' she's pouring him another shot.

"You're full of impertinent questions, aren't you?" It isn't really a question.

He's turning pages, ignoring photos, catching key details, assembling a profile.

"She wanted someone who could loosen up and have a good time. Stewart is much more gregarious than I am." Gladhander, he thinks.

It's not a question, but she answers anyway. "Yup."

She does, indeed, pour them each another drink, looking thoughtful.

"So you like to stay in control. Don't want to be caught off-guard." She phrases it like a theory, a work in progress. And then, without waiting, she throws back her second shot.

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