watching_you | OOM: Suite 130

"Like what? I'm the one with the file."

She watches his actions, slow, careful, and smirks. When he pours another shot she can't help but be impressed, and hesitates a moment, lifting the glass but waiting for him to drink first, this time.

"Agent Mars," he chides, holding the shot in the air between them. "You should know by now that the real intel never makes it into the file."

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for her. "Oh is that how it's going to be? Fine." He drinks again, and this time his eyes stay closed for just a bit longer. When he opens them again, his gaze is sharp.

"Field work requires human assets, and a certain level of trust. You have to place your life in the hands of people who are..." He pauses, searching for the right sentiment. "Not exactly saints. You learn to know them for who they are, and what they are capable of. And as long as you don't expect them to be more than that, you'll never be disappointed."

There's a sense of challenge to his tone that she can't ignore. She narrows her eyes and drinks the shot, swallowing hard.

"Field work --"

She reaches across the bar and snatches the bottle back from him.

"-- is very different --"

She pours herself another glassful.

"-- from sex."

She throws it back, shuddering only slightly, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth for a moment. Then, in a calm, measured gesture she places her shot glass back on the bar.

And lifts her eyebrows at Mills. How d'you like me now?

"Really." He's rather enjoying watching her cheeks flush.

He uses his fingertips to slide his glass right next to hers. This will make five shots. Five is a nice round number. He pours both without stopping between the two, merely letting the flow continue over the rim to the second glass when the first is full.

The minimum amount of spillage may let her know he's done this before. (Vodka, tequila, arak. Russians, Salvadorans, Israelis. It all starts to blend together after awhile.)

"I'm not sure everyone would agree with that assessment, but I'm willing to hear your argument." He lifts his glass and gestures for her to proceed, though with the discussion or the drinking, it's hard to tell.

It's five for Mills but six for Veronica; six in ten minutes is firmly outside the realm of her calculations, and the world of what is easily perceived and relevant to her senses is narrowing considerably.

Fortunately she'll be tripping over her own feet before she loses the ability to speak. Too much practice.

"With sex it's inadvisable to just grab someone you barely know and hope for the best. There's a different kind of trust involved, and different consequences."

She unbuttons her sleeves, and folds back the cuffs to her elbows. Then she leans forward again, sliding her hand to the shot glass, starting at the edge of the bar. Her fingers run along the smooth countertop like figure skaters. Gently, slowly, her fingertips wrap around the tiny drink, like it's made of something precious.

"That person... doesn't have to be a saint. But you should be able to expect more."

"I don't disagree," he drawls, watching her with a shadowed smile on his lips. "But it's equally inadvisable to just grab someone in the field, and hope they can provide what you need. I would say that the stakes are even higher than sex. As long as you understand what you're trying to accomplish, and you can adapt to changing circumstances, an asset could be almost anyone. In fact, the more unlikely, the better. As long as they fulfil the mission specs."

He's in no rush to down this shot, twisting the tiny glass between two fingers, his gaze still resting on her.

"Regardless, both require a certain willingness to expose yourself, to make yourself -- vulnerable."

Focused as Veronica is on her drink, it takes her a moment to parse what he's said.

"Right," she says eventually, perhaps not as confident as she might have been ten minutes and a whole lot of tequila ago. "Also, I personally tend to wear more clothing in the field."

She giggles at her own joke, then cuts herself off as she swings back the liquor.

Mills watches, chuckling quietly.

"Duly noted," he says aloud.

Again, no swigging for him. A long smooth drink and the glass carefully placed back on the counter.

"And I think that's enough for the moment, don't you?"

"What, quitting already? No, I'm joking, really. Couple of minutes and this is going to hit me like a truck."

She focuses her stare on him, fingers drumming aimlessly on the countertop.

"Haven't lost control of anything yet, have you?"

He turns to face her, one foot resting on the crossbar of the bar stool. He leans forward, resting an elbow on the counter, and his chin on his knuckles in a fair impersonation of the Thinker.

"Well," he drawls. "We were talking about sex, weren't we?"

"That counts, does it?"

He gives her a long look, one eyebrow raised, his lips pursed.

"At any time in the brief span we've known each other, have I ever seemed like the kind of person who openly and freely discusses his view on sexual relations? With anyone?"

Okay, maybe he's a bit more verbose than he was a few minutes ago. A little.

"Well shucks, Bryan, I just figured it was 'cause you liked me so darn much."

She gives him a playful punch on the arm.

"I'll give that half a point, seeing as I'm the one who brought it up in the first place."

"Ow," he says, chuckling. "Whatever happened to subtle? Oh right. Tequila."

Did it just get warm in here? Mills leans back and slips his jacket off, idly looking for a place to set it down. He rises from the barstool and throws it over the arm of the couch. She can see the shoulder holster and the .45 beneath.

"Oh, don't pretend you're mad..."

Veronica trails off as she spots the holster, frowning slightly. "Are you carrying? In my apartment?"

She slips around the bar, stepping up to him. "You are." Teasing, "What, were you afraid I was going to try something?"

Now he's the one unbuttoning and rolling his sleeves up, his long fingers taking their own sweet time about the task. "I always carry. The only place you won't find me carrying is the airport, and then only when I can't get special dispensation."

He raises an eyebrow. What of it?

Veronica looks him up and down, then crosses her arms and presses a thoughtful finger to her lips. After a moment she starts giggling again.

"For the record, I am picturing you in pajamas and a shoulder holster. Also, the pajamas have teddy bears on them."

Mills crosses his arms over his chest and looks down his nose at her.

"Teddy bears?" He leans forward a bit, trying to frown. It's not working very well. A smirk cracks the facade.

"No. I do take it off to sleep."

"Good, then you can take it off now, too."

She steps in closer, hands on her hips as she tipsily attempts to look intimidating.

"Guns and that much tequila don't mix."

His eyebrows rise. And slowly, he complies. He coils the holster around the weapon and leans down to place it on the coffee table. "Happy?"

She grins. "Actually that was just a ruse so I could do this --"

By the time she reaches 'this' she has already moved, grabbing one of the end cushions off the couch, and bringing it around in a clumsy arc towards his head.

Thump.

"What the--?"

His hand comes up and enfolds the pillow, twisting it out of her hands. This motion is complete before he realises quite what has happened.

"Oh is that how it is? Unprovoked attacks will be met with an appropriate level of force." The pillow is propelled back across the short space between them, aimed for her shoulder.

Veronica throws up her hands and lets the fluffy projectile bounce off of her to the floor, laughing.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist. You're very --" she searches for the appropriate word, "-- provokeable."

Which is not actually a real word, but it will have to do.

Mills is still grinning, shaking his head slightly. "Y'know, I think you might be drunk."

With that astute observation, he settles back onto the couch and kicks off his shoes.

"I'd say bring the bottle but I think we'll be fine for awhile."

"I have no idea what you're basing that on."

She grabs the far end of the couch, but sits sideways, facing him, her legs folded underneath her. For a moment she lets her head rest against the back of the couch, which serves to keep the room from spinning for a few moments.

"As for the rest -- I suppose that depends on your definition of 'fine'."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject