It was never a pleasure to be summoned to this fluorescent-lit hellhole, but. Well, no but, really. Besides the precious few tolerable individuals around, wrapped up in these entirely intolerable circumstances. Like Zaya. Virgil could've sworn his shoulders settled about an inch lower on sight of her; God bless. Hackles smoothing, he veered out of his way, through one of the upper-story, surgically impersonal staff-rooms, and onto an otherwise unpopulated balcony to join one of his very favourite agents.
"Zaya. What a spectacularly antisocial corner this is. I love it." And, yes, he'd presume to help himself. If she wanted him to fuck off, she'd say so. Wonderful quality. To be commended. Too many of these so-called superheroes were just trash at the whole work-life boundaries thing; tragic. The bar was so, so low. And here they were, both tripping over it. Definitely. Over it. Not clotheslined to the ground on their way past, no. Propping an elbow on the balcony rail, Virgil immediately went fishing in his coat for a cigarette. "Tough day at the office? Regale me. Or don't. You know the drill." They both did, by now. And, when every damn day at the office was tough, someone who knew - even if they simply seethed in companionable silence, hating in the same broad, general direction - was as close as he could get to comfort. Wasn't it? Now that he'd been left to languish on a two-drink limit like a goddamn private at the on-base cantina and coke was right out of the question, anyway...
@donewithflare