where: mont hq date: tbd. status: closed for @cleosokolova
Calina has done dealings that put the Montagues ahead of the game. If he were a better man he’d congratulate her and move along, but Boris is not a better man, and so he is standing in her office, uninvited as he is to all things he includes himself in, while she pays more attention to the paperwork on the desk. It is an insult on top of perceived injury, and he’s doing his best to ignore it, even with his arms folded across his chest. He’s not angry, necessarily, only a little petty, but somehow that’s worse.
He has to wonder how long this cold front within the Montagues can last. He’s willing and able to endure the chill, but like most things, he’s found it exhausting after a little while. Their hesitation is not at all difficult to understand -- he might have done the same, to anyone else, if it benefited him somehow. But his mistake, his purposeful slip -- it’d been well over a year ago. He’d been invited back. And no one seems willing to so much as give him an inch.
Is it because they know he’ll take a mile?
Calina certainly knows. He’d tried it, time and time again, with Faron, at every possible opportunity, up until the man’s death. Graceless, that.
“I could have helped you,” he says, “with the Yakuza. It would’ve been easier.” If he were feeling a little more tactful, he could have given her some credit. Slapped a good job on top of the package before sending it off. He isn’t feeling tactful, because he isn’t feeling much at all in the moment beyond the quiet stirrings of jealousy, one of the uglier emotions that Boris knows all too well. It’s his worst habit.