#hxndled

[jamesgros]

continued from this

[text: Ginny] My jokes would be funny if you spoke better German [text: Ginny] I have a book [text: Ginny] I will get a Serbian one

[redhcwk-archive]

|| The New Handler ||

hxndled​

He sits down on the chair, unbuttoned suit jacket falling rather disgracefully over the back rest as he worries about rolling up the sleeves of the social shirt of white color – cream actually, or something akin to gray, as the girl from accountancy suggested when he entered the building that morning. It’s not for the room temperature, kept at loveliest 25ºC, nor is about nervousness; Christopher is never nervous since he had his cuffs taken by Nick Fury himself two months ago.

He does that show out of himself with all the flamboyancy simply because he can and also to let her that he's allowed such comforts. Her files, held together by one of those manila folders, have been read and read once more until he can tell every word of every paper without so much as glancing at them again.

Genevieve Marie Bauer is a Sergeant;                                                                   ( No ‘was’ here, once you start you don’t stop until                                                                     someone stops you. So she is a soldier, as much                                                                     as he is if not more, judging by what he had read )                                                               one committed woman with a martyr complex and a damaged shoulder. She is perfect for the title of The Emissary, the handler of situations with a cold heart that could pair with Miss Romanoff's own. Small in physical stature but her mere presence takes precedence. Genevieve is to be loved and hated and feared for the simple fact she could ruin a country with one phone call.

And why such praise, he asks himself as he folds one leg over the other, for the last thing he wishes is to be commanded once more.

It's not that Christopher holds a problem with authority, or with the fact the new handler is a woman – far from that. But… working for the Americans should provide him with the long desired freedom, right? Wrong, otherwise he would be very, very far from the United States right now. On the other hand, though, it’s way too soon to be out in the world like a hound with no leash; His death is too recent, let them mourn another of their precious Asset                                       ( or maybe they prefer dancing on his metaphorical                                         grave with vodka bottles and music all night long –                                         and Christopher wouldn’t blame them for the decision. )

So Christopher is willing to follow orders for a few more years, because between the chance of receiving his Manumission and a lifetime of Servitude, the young man at least is wise enough to choose the prettier leash           ( and if he followed his own analogy right, his leash is the blood red tie              hanging on his neck; Clint gave it to him and Cho said he “looked like              Hitman from the game”, maybe some pop-culture upgrade is in order. )

Doesn't mean he won't tease, test the waters                             ( Alright, maybe not this one comparison is not the                                best one for a man afraid of deep waters. And                               there's no deeper ocean then the one of information                               and S.H.I.E.L.D. has a lot of information.)

                                                             ( And now he's drifting into his own mind.                                                                                                       Focus, Yastreb. )

By now, he has his eyes closed and is hunched over the metal table, hands together as if praying (except he’s an Atheist since Day One) and chin supported by them. The room doesn’t hold much to see, anyway. White walls, two doors and no mirrors – people already know what, or rather ‘who’, is on the other side of those false mirrors, so there’s not much use for them anymore (doesn’t mean nobody is watching, there is always someone watching). That how she finds Christopher, because when the door opposite to the one he entered clicks open and clicks back closed a moment later, the ginger doesn’t move from his hunched position, simply follows the irritating sound of high heels on tiled floors and then finally raises his head and open his eyes.

               “ Hello, Miss Bauer. ”

He smiles to her and finally rests his back on the chair’s own, but now he has his arms crossed over the tie and his foot dropped over the left knee, moccasin black, with matching sock, shining once exposed to the LED lights of the interrogation – debriefing, is the term used now, but two months ago, it was ‘interrogation’ and it’s funny how everything changes at the spin of coin, isn’t it?

               “ I really hope they told you                 all the nice things about me. ”

[jatamansi-arc]

hxndled

hxndled

I am sadface'd because Britt unfollowed me and I don't know what I did. :[

But I admire the fucking shit out her writing. She is bar to none of the best roleplayers I have ever worked with and I love Nik and Ginny so much. There is nothing that she ever does half ass, period, and that's why I love her so, so much.

Also the communist jokes. So many communist jokes.

[jatamansi-arc]

Earth. Wet leaves. A cold fall wind through empty branches.

Ooh. I like the idea of earth and wet leaves together. That is such a lovely scent combination in particular? Very mossy, I think, and it fits, especially when combined with the chill of an autumnal wind. :D

[jatamansi-arc]

hxndled replied to your post “Ever in awe of the awesome hxndled.”

D: who in the fuck? I mean thank you, both of you, but wut?

CONGRATS. Someone likes you! :D

[jatamansi-arc]

hxndled replied to your post:SO THANKSGIVING IS OFF TO AN INTERESTING START...

youtube.com/watch?v…

God bless you, Britt. Oh my god.

[jamesgros]

First impressions

Why was it that the places with the best view of the street always had the smallest tables? James did not fit at this thing.  He’d been back in D.C for less than a week when TROL called— actually called, as if he would miss any other form of communication. ( He supposes that much was his fault, having dared to be asleep when they asked for confirmation last time.) Then the text this morning, telling him not to come to the office after all, but idle at one of the corner cafes. That wasn't so unusual. They had a file on him they liked to show people, the evidence to back his reputation.                                      (He didn't like that bit so much, but it was expected) Who they were showing it to was more of a-- not a problem, per se, but an unknown.

The ridiculous house blend he was glaring into may have promised many things, but answers weren't one of them. Roy had sounded smugger than usual, and that meant an independent. Not one he'd worked with before, though; or they wouldn't have bothered with the song and dance. Probably not muscle, given his own prowess in that regard, but definitely good at whatever work they did do. It almost had to be someone with more...diplomatic skill than he, but that wasn't saying much. Certain houseplants had more diplomatic skill than he affected. 

That left around half the ones he knew of, and half of those were currently on the other side of the planet. Two or three of them would never work with TROL again, and a fourth was rumored to have gone underground rather more permanently than he intended. Then there was--A quiet chirp from his phone pulls him from the consideration of the remainder:                                                                               She wants to meet you. Stay there She?  Well. That certainly narrowed things down. 

[demxning-blog]

( hxndled​ )

{ His mind seemed to be a collection of everflowing knowledge. Some things that he had observed certainly did lead him in on secrets. Secrets about many individuals, and secrets about the world in general. This city had been one he explored more often than others, and he knew the secrets of it so clearly. The whole in the wall clubs, the clubhouses, the hiding places, and the people that associated with all of them. He never interacted with them, and if he had, it was casualties. Or questions regarding something miniscule. So, it was not even in his mind that someone might have ordered a hit on him. 

Who was it, that would have such a suspicion about the drifter? Monty sure didn't have a clue, he didn't even know such a thing was arranged. The passive agressive mind of Sebastian Grantaire never forgot a face, and couldn't forget that of Monty's. Again and again, he saw that never-changing face around him and his circle, and he grew worried that the man knew something he shouldn't. Contracting an excellent handler -- a Miss Bauer -- so infiltrate the strange man's trust and kill him effortlessly when he least expected it. It would need to be done so with such care, as it seemed Monty was two steps ahead of Grantaire.

It also didn't prove hard to find him. He was always curiously wandering around the city, looking for interesting places, things, and people. Today had been no different. He looked nonthreatening enough, sitting idly at a bench completely immersed in writing of his experiences thus far. }