[heirlccms]

An almost Russian-affected voice caught Vadim somewhat off-guard. So far, he hadn’t encountered anyone from the land he once called ‘home’, and wasn’t aware of any agents, quartermasters, or trainees who shared that small characteristic in common. With that in mind, he couldn’t help but regard the other with an immediate suspicion - after all, in exchange for his recruitment to MI6 and the turnover of various pieces of information, he had been promised political asylum. Effectively, Russia simply couldn’t come after him in retaliation for the supposed ‘crimes’ of his past. So, this sudden appearance of a would-be Russian, an almost Russian as it were, caused a certain kind of dreaded doubt permeated throughout the room. Vadim remained silent as the other spoke on, noting how damnably happy the man seemed - almost childlike in nature, which made Vadim want to recoil. Definitely not Russian, he thought, just before hearing the other speak in his own native tongue. His eyebrows furrowed, and he could feel his muscles tensing a bit at the possibility of a Russian infiltrator, sent here from the Director of GRU himself. Trust no one, the inner monologue of his formative training rang out. Voice bearing the slightest trace of caution, Vadim responded, “If it is, they are not qualified to remain here. This is child’s play. And, I do not enjoy working with children.” He allowed his last statement to serve as something of an indiscreet warning for the other, silently hoping that the man revealed himself as whatever, exactly, he was - agent or otherwise.

[aurcl-blog]

Blue eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the other agent’s tense response. It was always in careful measures, how much Nick dared entertain his other personas -- the ones he fell into for undercover missions -- and it was rare that he’d slip into them in a non-covert work situation; it was a great deal of work to maintain, such a facade, not even considering the difficulty of melding different personas, should he slip and find himself in a situation where he had to maintain multiple facades. He wasn’t even sure why he had done that, the Russian-accent-meets-offsetting-and-loony. He hadn’t used that since high school -- acting, a Mad Hatter look that he had loved dearly but did nothing to help him. It was off-putting and strange, rather than charming and low-key. An expert in foreign policy and relations, he’d later berate himself for taking so long to realize -- Russian. Russian, goddamnit. It was the accent - and damn, why did he think it was a good idea to use Russian with a Russian that wasn’t just a run-of-the-mill expat like Adi? Good God, Nick was getting sloppy. Breathing in deeply, he realized he’d have to readjust his game plan. Opening his mouth into a cheshire grin once again, he took on a slight Moldovan affect -- a safe in between, from his often-used Russian and long-suppressed Romanian. Safe. Comfortable. “I wouldn’t knock child’s play myself. It can have its moments.” With a wink, Nick stuck out his arm -- slowly, carefully, delicately -- for the Russian to shake. “002. A pleasure, I take it.” Definitely not on the other’s part, Nick was certain.

[heirlccms]

When all was said and done, Vadim had no time for riddles. For him, there was very little value in wasting one’s time over an uninspired attempt at provoking thought or uncovering a meaningless revelation. Already something of an impatient man - and certainly one when the end of an excruciatingly slow day was nowhere in sight - he only grew more frustrated at the note stuck to his computer, the handwriting resembling the scrawl of a child while the question was something just as asinine. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” Vadim read out loud, his countenance twisting into a scowl, hoping that whoever had stuck this to the cover of his laptop could now feel the annoyance quickly rising up to the surface. Something this immature could only have come from one of the younger trainees, or so the agent hoped. “This is stupid,” Vadim reprimanded loudly, although it was directed to no one in particular. Taking another look at the brightly colored note, he said in a smaller voice, unable to resist solving it for himself. “Perhaps…because both stand on sticks. Yes, this is reasonable answer.” He stopped himself from speaking more when he realized the presence of someone else near his cubicle, and stood up from his chair to greet them, offering a silent nod to them after studying them briefly.

[aurcl-blog]

Nick had always liked riddles. They were fun, especially for a linguist and a philosopher like himself, a thinker with little time to do much else. He didn’t make enough time for riddles these days -- little time for such fancies, and all that. But still, he could never resist one, especially not one as oft-questioned as the one her heard floating through the air, dancing on a deep, Russian-accented voice. “‘I think you might do something better with the time than wasting it in asking riddles that have no answers,’” he quoted seamlessly, his own voice taking on a slight Russian affect, simply a result of hearing the accent himself. He was good at that -- slipping into accents. Always a fun party trick. “I haven’t heard that answer before. I myself prefer Aldous Huxley’s venture -- ‘Because there is a 'b' in both and an 'n' in neither.’ How absurdist, I love it.” A 60-watt smile graced his features, only somewhat artificially. Blue-grey eyes focussing in on the bright note in the man’s hands, Nick raised an eyebrow. “Who’s that from? A trainee? Do you have an admirer, большой парень?” Was he being misleading, with his accent, to this mysterious individual? -- 005, he’d deduced, recalling murmurs of Britain’s very own Red Peril jumping ship to their side, to take place as the number. Was he curious as to how he’d possibly miss this -- what, 2m tall giant, and the opportunity to harass him in his native language? Perhaps to the former, an absolute yes to the latter.

[jones-cosette-deactivated201601]

“You’re late,” Cosette grumbled, slamming her notes onto her the desk and turning to the person who had just entered her office. “Do you think I spend all day tinkering around with toys waiting for you to show up? As though I have nothing else to do with my life? And would you stop standing there! It’s making me uneasy.”

[aurcl-blog]

“Sorry, erm -- I was,” he’s out of breath, tie loose and hair mussed as grips the doorway, hanging on for dear life. “I was kind of occupied. With work. Because I have work. That requires me to be predisposed and also sometimes shot at. Like I was...” voice ironic and pinched, he checks his watch -- the glass cracked -- “ten minutes previously. Sorry for inconveniencing you, though,” he says, voice dripping with annoyance. “Would you prefer I sit? Or shall I just pass out in the doorway?”

[identityxnknown-deactivated2015]

“Oh!” Nine exclaimed excitedly, grinning from ear to ear as she nonchalantly continued with the combat exercise. “How’s she doing?! Is she making friends? I can’t believe you didn’t get me to run surveillance checks on her nursery school, you know I would have.”  

[aurcl-blog]

He wishes he were as nonchalant as Nine, as they continue to spar, Nick moving into a more defensive line as to continue his conversation with as much eloquence as he can muster. “She’s —- ah, she’s doing great. Lots of friends - she has a playdate scheduled already, and, erm,” he pauses, trying catch his breath, “moved into advanced reading group. Her mum handled the school stuff, so don’t be too offended, wouldn’t let me near it if I tried. One of those posh - ah - celebrity schools, though, so I’m not too concerned.”

[petramacdonald-blog]

takeaway // nick & petra

Petra’s father had always been somewhat absent – not by any fault of his own, just by some accident of fate. By the time she had been born, he had already been a father once before. He was tired. He was ready for a break. Ready for retirement. They shared a silent agreement that – as long as she had her mother – there was no need for him. 

But when her mother died, she realised how much she had missed the little joys of having a father. Having someone to protect her too much, hold her too close. By the time she discovered she loved her father, he had already left her too – not knowing how to speak to his youngest daughter. This happy stranger with his wife’s brown curls and his own strong jaw. 

Nick was a father that Petra could respect. Nick was the kind of man that Petra could respect. Both were rare. And so, when he asked her to watch his daughter, she jumped at the prospect of helping him be the best parent he could be. And when she turned his child into a nihilist – an action she defends – she realised that, perhaps, she could help him best without responsibilities. 

Isla was with her mother, which meant that Nick was no fun. He was never any fun when he was thinking about his ex-wife, and he was always thinking about his ex-wife. Just like he was always thinking about his daughter. And so, like any good friend, Petra aimed to distract him. 

She kicked his door lightly three times – both hands were full – and her face pressed against the door.

“Let me in, I have bourbon and chinese.” 

[aurcl-blog]

Petra, Nick has long discovered, is far too much like his little sister for his own comfort. He wouldn’t say that he thought of her as a sister — no, they’re friends and coworkers and occasionally married for missions, since they mutually speak about a gazillion languages, but... he sees Ana in her, in the way she jabs fun at him, how she alternately dances around the topic of Astrid or makes fun at her expense, depending on her level of drunkness. He’s sure they’d get along, and it’s become his mission to ensure they never meet, because that’d be like sentencing himself to about a thousand years in hell.

He and Petra had a natural familiarity, though — no, he wouldn’t quite call it that, because informal as he is he’s quite proper in his work and he doesn’t think that she even knew how to address him ( as anything other than 2 ) for a month after the two of them met. It was more —- they fell into a rhythm, easy and comfortable and familiar before they knew it and it was just so easy for her to become a fixture in his life that he can’t quite place when it happened.

He’s not complaining, though. He’s never been good at making friends; it would be unwise for him to turn one down.

Isla is at Astrid’s for the weekend, though, and without a small child as a distraction Nick’s been absolutely on edge, antsy and frustrated and he’s gone to the range more times that he really should in anticipation of the stress seeing Astrid would cause —- as it always does, because even if Nick couldn’t say he was in love with Astrid anymore, not by a long shot, she’s still got her cold, claw-like grip on his heart and knows how to play the strings to turn him into putty or drive him up the walls and well, she just happens to like doing the latter.

( These are the facts: It’s the anniversary of his divorce. Astrid’s new husband picked Isla up from his house and it’s the same smug bastard he caught her in bed with a coupe years ago. Astrid’s well-adjusted and civil while speaking with him, and it makes Nick feel like a petulant child.

Nick would strongly deny those facts being facts, much less them having an effect on his outlook. )

So it’s a saving grace when there are three characteristic bangs on the door, and Nick almost spills his cup ( yes, cup —- not cup with coffee, just a straight cup ) of Bailey’s, but catches himself, and places it on his coffee table delicately.

Standing to get the door, he shouts at her through the walls, hearing the faint ‘bourbon’ and ‘Chinese’ from outside. “Minute, just a minute.” Unlocking the barricade he’s turned his door into ( damn his neurotic nature and job that confirms his worst fears ), he swings it open and takes a bag from Petra, gentleman that he is ( and starving as well, he hasn’t eaten a thing all day ). “How goes it, Pet? Turned any toddlers into fatalists lately? Because we both know you like Nietzsche.” His smile is wry but welcoming as he ushers her in, closing the door behind her.

[a-moralitys]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ sᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ. || ᴏᴘᴇɴ

[a-moralitys]

“That’d– That’d be nice,” he says. Although he’s just said it’s alright, he would much rather not jump halfway out of his skin every time the man seemed to just appear behind him. “Yeah, I guess . . I am always kinda on edge, though. You know.” It doesn’t take a genius to see that Adrien is jumpy, and the agent is smarter than the average yam.

He nods at the man’s response. Oh yes, does he ever. The teenager hasn’t gotten more than ten minutes of sleep for the past three nights, and he’s starting to drag, but hopefully it doesn’t show too much. “Tell her to hug a pillow or a stuffed animal when she sleeps. It helps . . ” It’s not as though he’s never had a nightmare before - he knows how this sort of thing goes.

The more they talk, the calmer he gets, though he’s still antsy as all hell - as relaxed as he ever gets. "Did you, um . . need something? From me, I m-mean?”

[aurcl-blog]

“I’ll make an effort, then,” he says firmly, because he always has to be firm with Adrien, taking on his dadliest tone, as some ( cough, Petra, cough ) would call it. It really is a force of habit, all this sneakiness —- recon’s one of his specialties for a reason. “Well, that’s not exactly unprecedented, given our... line of work, let’s say.” he mumbles, wry smile playing on his lips. Adrien is a very jumpy young man, less at-ease than Nick can ever remember being, even when he was eight and couldn’t speak English and there were xenophobic bullies at every corner. Then again, Adrien in general is just a lot stranger than Nick remembers himself or his teenage counterparts being.

Nick quirks an eyebrow at Adrien’s response, not at all surprised but a little amused, mostly concerned. The boy has eyebags for days and a constant look of slight emptiness, and Nick just wants to wrap him up in a blanket-burrito and force him to sleep for a week straight. “Will do. I think part of the problem is that she left David — her stuffed dog, I know, she’s an odd duck — at her mother’s, and... God, that woman is terrifying. The minutes I spend dropping Isla off and picking her up is more than enough time spent with her.”

It’s clear to Nick that the trainee is softening up, calming down, and Nick’s pleased —- those pictures are a whole can of worms that need to be opened, but not now, God, not now. Nick is way too tired to deal with that shit today. “I was wondering if you’d like to go down to the range. I noticed you were a bit shaky last time, and maybe we could tighten that up, if you’d like.”

[a-moralitys]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ sᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ. || ᴏᴘᴇɴ

[aurcl-blog]

( ; adrien. )

He knows this man. Nick might be just as dangerous as most agents, but he’s already been deemed as a safe person in the teenager’s mind, and there’s no going back from there. It’s easy to slip into Russian when speaking to him - no longer is it something he has to contemplate. “It’s . . alright, I guess,” he says quietly, slipping the photos into his bag before standing and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“How are you?”

He can feel the tension in the air. It might be imagined on his end, but to him, at least, it seems real. Maybe it’s because he’s still nervous - he’s always nervous, always on edge like this. His hands are shaking now with anxious tremors, and he has to clench his fists to calm them. He’s fine; everything is fine.

The switch into Russian is a fluid one, and Nick is immediately put at ease —- even with the odd, odd pictures ( probably inappropriate and oh God, illegal, he’d have to have a talk with him, wouldn’t he ). It probably puts the teenager in a safer place of mind, being his native language. It does for Nick, when he hears his sister call after him in his native tongue, warming him from his toes, reminding him of home. “Well, I still apologize. I’ll try not to from now on —- it’s enough to put anyone on edge, hm?” He can feel Adrien jittering from across the room, and if it weren’t for the disturbing spread of pictures filling the room, he’d feel badly for it.

“I’m alright, Adi. Bit tired, you know how it is.” He swished his ‘adult’ coffee, the thicky, oozy liquid almost spilling from the mug before he brought it to his mouth quickly, clacking his teeth with a bit of a smile. “Isla kept me up all night. Poor thing had a nightmare. Poor me had to deal with it.”

He kind of feels as though he’s speaking to a frightened animal —- you know, the large and dangerous ( but still scare-able ) sort. If he moves too suddenly or in just the wrong way he’s a goner, and Adrien’ll be spooked, but he can’t just walk away. He needs to figure out what the deal with the pictures is.

[a-moralitys]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ sᴇᴄʀᴇᴄʏ. || ᴏᴘᴇɴ

[aurcl-blog]

( ; adrien. )

There’s fifty-seven photos laid out before him.

They’re all good quality, but none shows enough of a face to make an accurate assumption as to who it is. Rather, they’re just snapshots of a person: a sharp jaw here, a perfect collarbone there. He doesn’t pull these pictures out often, only when he thinks he’s alone - which, apparently, he isn’t. Adrien quickly shuffles his photos into a stack, the only image left facing upwards being the curve of a shoulder, bare and exposed to the world.

“I didn’t hear you coming,” he whispers, his voice holding a nervous tremor - the same way it does no matter what he’s doing. He doesn’t feel like he’s in trouble, but these photos are private, and no one’s seen them before besides him.

Nick doesn’t like to pry.

It’s different with some people —- it’s different with Petra, for example, because they know each other too well to maintain a guise of professionalism. It’s different with Astrid, because they were married and already knew each other so intimately that it would be a joke to act as though they weren’t once extensions of one another. It’s different with his little sister, and with his daughter’s preschool teacher that he’s been inappropriately flirting with for weeks (going nowhere, in case you were interested). Nick doesn’t pry with Adrien. He knows better than to pry with such a powderkeg of a person, because even if he feels paternal towards the younger man, he knows that Adrien is dangerous, and Nick’s own safety is a priority. Adrien is dangerous, and this he knows when he walks into the room, eyes darting through the pictures, categorizing them as someone, someone, the same someone oh my god and —-

“Sorry, it’s rude to drop in... unannounced, isn’t it.” His words are careful, articulate, because he’s got a Situation here. “Force of habit,” Nick allows, shrugging slowly. His actions are neutral and he’s keeping his distance, because this is... this is weird, but not really so much for Adrien, and if he’s just... quiet, doesn’t say anything, they can both pretend Nick didn’t see a damn thing. Nick’s good at that. And besides, it’s none of his business. He doesn’t like to pry.

[aurcl-blog]

( ; emery. )

“Four out of five! That was great, right?” Emery beamed, satisfied with how much her aim had improved lately. As she took the safety ear muffs, she turned to face the person next to her. “The secret,” she paused for effect, “is to picture a certain someone that makes your skin crawl and bam–you turn into a machine.” 

“That’s good. Now get five for five.” Nick’s not meeting her eyes, his own focussed on the range, holding his ( admittedly oversized and ridiculous ) weapon. His breaths are slow and a little ragged, but near-silent still. “Astrid.” Click. Click, click, click. He pulls off his earmuffs, turning back to her. “I think I work better with a blank target. Imagining a mannequin —- easier to pull the trigger,” he says, shrugging, as his target rushes towards him on the conveyor, shots shakier than usual.

[aurcl-blog]

( ; nine. )

“I can tell you’ve been practicing,” Nine said breathlessly, dodging a clip from her sparring partner and responding with a lash of her own. “Your body work is much stronger than usual.”

“Can’t let myself get soft, can I?” He’s a little winded, but he’d never say anything, not when Nine’s on the verge of kicking his ass ( though that’s nothing unusual —- Nick’s better at shooting and UC than hand-to-hand any day ). “Been able to get a few extra hours in at the gym. Isla in nursery school and all.”

[aurcl-blog]

Nebula Stone, Tsavorite.

nebula stone: how good my muse's memory is

nick’s memory is great. he’s like an elephant in that respect, doesn’t forget a thing. it can make things a bit weird, remembering minute details ( he’ll definitely know your name before you know his, if he’s heard someone say it ), but it can certainly be useful, in some regards, like in recon.

tsavorite: if my muse believes in destiny or fate

nick doesn’t believe in either, mostly because he likes having agency in his life and admitting either would mean, to him, that he doesn’t have total control over his life, that things just happen that he can’t stop or change, and that’s a little much for him to handle.

[aurcl-blog]

2, 9, 17

2. What do they do when they're feeling tired and need to stay awake?

he drinks coffee, and... just doesn’t sleep. he’s been trained as a sniper, he doesn’t need to sleep, he’s an expert at the long con and the waiting game.

9. How much ice do they put in their drinks?

a ton, unless it’s alcohol, in which case he takes it neat.

17. How do they like their toast?

this is going to sound really gross ( because it is ) but he takes it... burnt to pieces and completely cold. he doesn’t know why. nobody in his family does it, and jack thought it was putrid. he just likes the taste of the bitter char. it’s a mystery and he’s gross for it.

[aurcl-blog]

abalone, agate, moss agate

abalone: what kind of situations compromise my muse emotionally

any situation that threatens the safety of his daughter, his sister or his ex-wife, in that order. he doesn’t have a lot of trauma to rock him, but any present threat to those compromises him and he loses himself, a bit.

also, he hates bullies. they drive him nuts and he will threaten them. it doesn’t matter that he’s a grown ass man. he will show a 17 year old punk his gun if it stops them from picking on a kid. he wouldn’t shoot, but he wouldn’t be above kicking their shit if they provoke him.

agate: how my muse calms down

there are two ways nick calms down, and it really depends on why he needs to be calmed.

if he’s emotionally compromised — after a particularly disturbing mission, par example, he’ll pick isla up, regardless of where she is ( unless it’s like, the middle of the night or something ), and go take her out for ice cream and watch a mindless kid’s movie with her, because he just needs to know something’s real and that isla’s safe.

if he’s pumped with adrenaline but alright mentally — he’ll have one too many drinks and go to the range and shoot until it closes and his shoulders ache from recoil. his aim goes downhill after a while and a few more drinks, but it’s a release that he needs.

moss agate: if my muse has a high or low opinion of themself

both? on an intellectual level, he knows he’s pretty ace. he has a fantastic job he loves, that happens to be really fucking impressive, and he’s smart, going to a world-renowned university for a very difficult program, graduating with honours, speaking a high number of languages with fluency. his house cost a million pounds, he has his daughter, who happens to be an actual angel, a lovely and smart little girl. he knows he’s impressive.

that doesn’t stop him from feeling like shit, though. childhood bullying sticks with you, and it hasn’t left nick, leaving him feeling insecure about things as little as the slight accent that remains from his childhood, and until his last year of university he’d still email his professors and confess that english wasn’t his first language so his proficiency may be limited ( it really wasn’t ). even after two years, he beats himself up over astrid leaving him and his inability to find anyone else, and has a lot of anxiety over whether he’ll mess up raising isla, whether or not he’ll screw up.

[aurcl-blog]

Amazonite.

amazonite: what kind of situations call for my muse to be dishonest

most situations. nick’s always been an easy liar, fluid and natural, automatic as breathing. as a younger person, he let the lies flow, billowing out whenever he let his mouth open, because it was just so easy. he tries to control himself more now, if only for isla’s sake, but it still happens -- more of the lying by omission, which is his omnipresent state.

[aurcl-blog]

♘ ▒░   ( 003  a.k.a  NICK MOLDOVEANU )   1/?

“I like to think I’m a really cool super spy, but I’m not, really. I put guns in the drywall of my house because I thought it’d look cool, punching out the wall and coming out shooting, but it’s tactically useless. It’d hurt like hell, going through drywall. Isla punched me in the nose and I cried. I have macaroni and cheese on my £5000 suit. I can literally count down the moments until my bitch ex-wife’ll call me. What the fuck is a gentleman spy? I got beat up every day in high school. I’m not cool at all.” — Aurel Nicolae Pavel ‘Nick’ Moldoveanu.

[aurcl-blog]

aquamarine, chalcedony

aquamarine: where my muse feels most calm/relaxed

his flat, a rainy day, sprawled all over the couch in jeans that fit just right, broken in enough to be comfortable but not so that they’re falling to pieces, a welcome break from his suits. isla is colouring on the table beside him, singing loudly one of her silly songs — the tune is real, but all the words are just strung together in her head, guiding her marker held tightly in her chubby fist. he hears anamaria padding across the floor in her room upstairs, and he’s not sure what she’s doing but she’s close and safe and what more could he ask for? ciorbă is simmering on the stove and it smells like home.

chalcedony: the saddest my muse has ever been

one might think it’d be his divorce, but it isn’t.

it’s a wake, and nick hasn’t had his heart break like this since his mother died when he was 18, but at least he saw that one coming. he stood outside the funeral home, until jack’s eldest daughter saw him, standing in the rain, feeling like a child playing dress up in a suit jack had tailored, that just didn’t feel like it was meant for him, not anymore. “you’re meant to be here as much as we are, nicky,” she said. he offered her a sad smile, and followed her back inside.

he owed jack everything.

jack was family. and jack was dead.

[aurcl-blog]

obsidian, opal.

obsidian: which of the seven deadly sins my muse would be

nick is wrath, as he lives and breaths. revenge runs through his veins and cold, cruel words slip off his tongue like a familiar memory. he justifies every bullet with “ they deserve it ” or “ it could be someone else ” and it’s up to chance whether its their bullet, hitting that elusive someone else, or his. he is anger unbridled and the very absence of calm.

he presents very, very well.

opal: how creative my muse is

creativity, in its most traditional sense, is something nick lacks. he can’t play the piano well, despite trying so very hard, or paint a picture in any decent way. but even so, creativity in other realms is one of his fortes — acting is a gift he holds if the audience isn’t paying too close attention, painting stories with his words that feel so real if you just don’t blink, or solving the puzzle of what turn to make what word to say what action will pass where should my last bullet fly — that’s a world in which nick excels, and it requires a whole lot of original thought.