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."
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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."
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She can do this all day.
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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."