#e.open

[polcrity]

open to: vasiles || location: vasile manor living room || eli

“Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to do an interview for this position.” 

“If you’re unhappy with your placement, tell me now.”

[polcrity]

open to: table 13 && any adjacent [ your discretion ] || eli

his phone is nearly slammed onto the table, face down. fingers grip hard into a fist, nails digging into his palm. to say his appetite has disappeared is an understatement-- in fact, he can feel the bile rising in his throat just as quickly as the tension has bolted through his chest. the recovery is swift, nearly broken as he glances across the room and catches a glimpse of red hair.

as he turns back to the table, a sigh escapes from his lips and a smile-- too perfectly symmetrical to be genuine-- takes its place.

“The wine is good.”

[polcrity]

location: metric coffee co, day

call him a facebook mom, but perhaps the single, most important rule in eli’s life is that there is no bad time for a black coffee. it’s been awhile since he’s had anything but chicago police department issue instant coffee. tastes like sludge, but it works like a charm to keep you going after ten hours sat at a desk--- 

he’s sat outside at one of those comically tiny tables, the comically tiny chair digging into his ass while he sips on pretentious coffee. but hey-- it’s better than being at the station and it’s sure as hell better than being home. if he can call it a home. 

the dog--- a greying labrador missing his back left leg--- nearly takes his arm off as it makes its best attempt to dart towards a stranger--- 

“Magnus.” voice firm, and tone calm, he holds the leash tight. 

“Sorry-- He gets excited.”

[polcrity]

location: vasile house, eli’s office

it seems that every day, the vasile home gains another member--- he can’t concern himself too much with dimitri’s vetting process, at this point -- and eli gains another child to babysit. the glass ( a mug, actually ) filled a little too highly with whiskey will be nursed while he attends to a large stack of files. the sense of irony is overwhelming--- taking police work to the mafia house, where two captives sit handcuffed against a support beam, waiting for an inevitable end that any police officer would gag at. the sound of his office door is nearly drowned out by the rustling and thumping of folders dropping into a box---

“What’s up?” he doesn’t turn to see the intruder, nor does he rush the files into proper place. “I’m a little busy.”