If Emily is irritated by or suspicious of him, she's given no hint so far, the consummate professional for all she's on the young side for this sort of assignment. (Irritated: She certainly is; she'd have taken the cigarettes before he tossed them in the river if she'd been quicker with her hands. Suspicious: Jury's still out.) Her demeanor is such that MI6 might as well have minted her fresh for this assignment, butter wouldn't melt, etc.
For now, she angles her opera glasses to get a closer look with keeping her body turned toward the stage. "He looks like he's fun at parties," she comments, quiet and bone dry. "Either that, or he's as critical of the programme as you are." Regardless, his expression gave the impression of a man sucking on a lemon.
"Good taste might be rare, but it does in fact grow everywhere."
Says the man who hasn't bothered to change into a fresh shirt for the evening. His collar is rumpled. Not that it's very visible given the low light and how deep the shadow is there where he's sat practically tucked behind the box's curtain. Still, Ralston has a particular way of slouching in his seat which has miraculously transformed it from slightly uncomfortable little thing with too little padding to a lounging club chair. He has one foot idly kicked up over a knee and his cane with it's snarling dog handle hooked across his ankle. Were it shaded by a more pleasing disposition and the whole effect might be charmingly rougish.
It is not.
"Merovic plans to meet his French connection at some point during this little cultural tour. My guess is they mean to pass along their great packet of allied secrets under the pretense of this dressing room congratulations, or that little after party, or so on."
They could simply wait of course, he'd remarked earlier, either an unwitting or oddly apt echo of MI6's own debrief. They might waylay Merovic as he is leaving the city when he was sure to have the NATO intelligence on him. Indeed here, moving about the quartered city, is when he would be most vulnerable and so most on guard. But it's not a long trip to the Czechoslovakian border and it's stunningly easy for a Soviet to disappear behind the curtain. Besides, it would leave Merovic's French friend unmasked.
'Just think of how fun it will be to kill two birds with one stone.'
It does, in fact, sounds fun. But in fairness, Emily's sense of fun has been described as "perverse" before.
In contrast to Ralston she looks impeccable; not flashy enough to draw attention, but fashionable enough to blend in a deep green, high-necked gown. (Her dress also, crucially, sports fashionably large pockets at the waist, saving her the bother of hiding her weapon in her clutch.) Her hair is gathered in an elegant twist that keeps it out of her face, and the jewelry is almost certainly borrowed, though not so nice it makes her a target thieves. She hadn't commented on his fashion choices when they left the hotel, and doesn't seem likely to.
Instead, she lowers her glasses, turning toward the stage but watching the target out of the corner of her eye. "Do we know if the French connection is someone he knows by face?"
"I doubt it, the art of photography notwithstanding. Can't rule out the possibility they've met elsewhere of course, but allegedly this is Merovic's first visit to our charming little city."
The dismissive flick of his fingers seems to indicate anything further is above his pay grade, whether it be in service to SIS or Moscow. It also signals what little measure of his attention had ever been turned outside of their box coming home to roost. Ralston's gaze—steel gray eyes that had been bright and cold along the Danube now turned exceptionally dark by the shaded box—settles firmly on her rather than bothering to entertain the pretense of either Merovic or the orchestra.
"Do you expect my medal will be delivered by hand or by post?"
"I expect you'll have to wait until the next time Her Majesty is in Vienna, she'll want to put it directly into your hand," she murmurs, still looking at Merovic while pretending to look at the musicians. "It's a shame, he seems old school enough to be suspicious because I'm a woman, regardless of how good my French is. All those diction lessons and he won't listen to a thing I have to say regardless."
She's mainly thinking (quietly) out loud; she isn't expecting any especially useful suggestions from Ralston, under the circumstances. She lightly drums her fingers against her knee, invisible outside the box.
His hm is a suitably perfunctory reply, untroubled by having his smart little remark undercut. And either her assumption must be a safe one or he doesn't know enough to correct it. Ralston hardly seems the type to leave the opportunity to make a correction untouched.
Instead what follows is a long moment of silence. Drummed fingers. His seemingly idle study of her, and of the lingering sense of the arcane draped about her which is equal parts invisible and buzzing softly against the very edge of his awareness—
She finally glances back at him, her expression mainly unchanged. "I solve problems, Mr. Ralston. I have a variety of tools at my disposal, depending on the problems' nature." The barest pause before, perfectly deadpan: "What is it that you do?"
"I doubt that extremely," is mainly arch, though can see the outline of how she'd make it suggestive if he were a different sort of assignment. A few adjustments only. "If nothing else, if that were true I suspect they wouldn't have made me carry that carton of cigarettes here for you to toss into the river."
"Well, not very successfully, it seems." She glances back at the stage. "It wouldn't have been my approach, but no one asked me. You're not the problem I'm solving."
Mr. Ralston evidently has a great range of smiles, though as of yet none of them have been particularly pleasant. Well, this one's curve says. At least someone somewhere considers him an imposition.
"My, my." How cool. "I imagine they're rather proud of how well you turned out of the mold."
"Tell me, Mr. Ralston, am I meant to be insulted by the implication that I'm good at my job, or is it just hard for you to imagine that someone might take satisfaction from an approach other than rumpled disapproval?" on the other hand, is perfectly pleasant, still quiet enough not to draw attention.
"I was aiming for both," is as light and quick as a switchblade, entirely genuine and utterly disreputable.
(He's still looking at her; he can't see much of the box opposite theirs from behind the edge of the curtain, and the contents of the stage hold significantly less interest than even that.)
If the scrutiny bothers her, there's no sign; she doesn't turn back, her tone unrelenting in its bland pleasantness. "Well then, you'll have to forgive me for not crumpling under your attempt at a cutting remark," she says, lightly. "I've been condescended to for years, by men with far more power over my future. I assume you must be at least reasonably good at what you do, or home office would have cut you loose years ago. So I am giving you the benefit of the doubt. But it is going to be an extremely tiresome mission if you spend it doing the rhetorical equivalent of kicking the seat in front of you on the train the entire time."
When his missive regarding the imminent arrival of Merovic's contingent in Vienna had been answered by a cable from his sister announcing her intention to visit, he'd decided instantly that the hot spark in the center of his chest was resentment rather than fear or nerves or anything else. He can be a convincing liar when he cares to be. By the time they'd collected one another, Ralston bad fully convinced himself of the exact nature and trajectory of the animosity.
"Well," he stage whisper hisses, dark eyes at last sliding from her. "I'd hate for you feel as if those men had entrusted you with little more than minding a surly child. I've no doubt that you're perfectly capable."
"I hadn't the least notion of you as a child until I encountered your seemingly ironclad commitment to childish behavior," she observes, still just as quiet. "Kicking off with a tantrum rather set the tone."
"Heaven forbid anyone cast you in the role of nursemaid," strikes a fine balance between viciously cheerful and disparaging as there on the stage, the latest movement turns towards its close.
With a thoughtless deft turn of the hand, Ralston disengages the silver dog headed cane from where it lay hooked across his ankle.
"Let's snip the apron strings then, shall we? I'll meet you back at your hotel to compare notes. Unless of course," warrants a sidelong look in the dark. "You'd rather have me to hand."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
everything's made up and the compass points don't matter
For now, she angles her opera glasses to get a closer look with keeping her body turned toward the stage. "He looks like he's fun at parties," she comments, quiet and bone dry. "Either that, or he's as critical of the programme as you are." Regardless, his expression gave the impression of a man sucking on a lemon.
no subject
Says the man who hasn't bothered to change into a fresh shirt for the evening. His collar is rumpled. Not that it's very visible given the low light and how deep the shadow is there where he's sat practically tucked behind the box's curtain. Still, Ralston has a particular way of slouching in his seat which has miraculously transformed it from slightly uncomfortable little thing with too little padding to a lounging club chair. He has one foot idly kicked up over a knee and his cane with it's snarling dog handle hooked across his ankle. Were it shaded by a more pleasing disposition and the whole effect might be charmingly rougish.
It is not.
"Merovic plans to meet his French connection at some point during this little cultural tour. My guess is they mean to pass along their great packet of allied secrets under the pretense of this dressing room congratulations, or that little after party, or so on."
They could simply wait of course, he'd remarked earlier, either an unwitting or oddly apt echo of MI6's own debrief. They might waylay Merovic as he is leaving the city when he was sure to have the NATO intelligence on him. Indeed here, moving about the quartered city, is when he would be most vulnerable and so most on guard. But it's not a long trip to the Czechoslovakian border and it's stunningly easy for a Soviet to disappear behind the curtain. Besides, it would leave Merovic's French friend unmasked.
'Just think of how fun it will be to kill two birds with one stone.'
no subject
In contrast to Ralston she looks impeccable; not flashy enough to draw attention, but fashionable enough to blend in a deep green, high-necked gown. (Her dress also, crucially, sports fashionably large pockets at the waist, saving her the bother of hiding her weapon in her clutch.) Her hair is gathered in an elegant twist that keeps it out of her face, and the jewelry is almost certainly borrowed, though not so nice it makes her a target thieves. She hadn't commented on his fashion choices when they left the hotel, and doesn't seem likely to.
Instead, she lowers her glasses, turning toward the stage but watching the target out of the corner of her eye. "Do we know if the French connection is someone he knows by face?"
no subject
The dismissive flick of his fingers seems to indicate anything further is above his pay grade, whether it be in service to SIS or Moscow. It also signals what little measure of his attention had ever been turned outside of their box coming home to roost. Ralston's gaze—steel gray eyes that had been bright and cold along the Danube now turned exceptionally dark by the shaded box—settles firmly on her rather than bothering to entertain the pretense of either Merovic or the orchestra.
"Do you expect my medal will be delivered by hand or by post?"
Ha ha.
no subject
She's mainly thinking (quietly) out loud; she isn't expecting any especially useful suggestions from Ralston, under the circumstances. She lightly drums her fingers against her knee, invisible outside the box.
no subject
Instead what follows is a long moment of silence. Drummed fingers. His seemingly idle study of her, and of the lingering sense of the arcane draped about her which is equal parts invisible and buzzing softly against the very edge of his awareness—
"What is it that you do?"
No useful suggestions indeed.
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"Oh only as I'm told to, Ms. Finch."
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He's shocked, just shocked.
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"My, my." How cool. "I imagine they're rather proud of how well you turned out of the mold."
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(He's still looking at her; he can't see much of the box opposite theirs from behind the edge of the curtain, and the contents of the stage hold significantly less interest than even that.)
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When his missive regarding the imminent arrival of Merovic's contingent in Vienna had been answered by a cable from his sister announcing her intention to visit, he'd decided instantly that the hot spark in the center of his chest was resentment rather than fear or nerves or anything else. He can be a convincing liar when he cares to be. By the time they'd collected one another, Ralston bad fully convinced himself of the exact nature and trajectory of the animosity.
"Well," he stage whisper hisses, dark eyes at last sliding from her. "I'd hate for you feel as if those men had entrusted you with little more than minding a surly child. I've no doubt that you're perfectly capable."
no subject
She can do this all day.
no subject
With a thoughtless deft turn of the hand, Ralston disengages the silver dog headed cane from where it lay hooked across his ankle.
"Let's snip the apron strings then, shall we? I'll meet you back at your hotel to compare notes. Unless of course," warrants a sidelong look in the dark. "You'd rather have me to hand."