dmitrixmolotov

[dmitrixmolotov]

List of Dmitri's Character Tropes

Russian Oligarch™

Card Shark

English as 3rd Language

Orphan Club Member

Mafia Man™

"9mm Luger Makes Perfect Fashion Accessory"

Legally Dead

"Man Unintentionally Uses Constant Death Threats to Flirt"

Poker Face™

Hacker™

Voted Most Honest Criminal

Home is Where the Bitcoin Mines

Clean Suit Means Clean Shot

"Giving Away Expensive Gifts is not a Sign of Attraction threatens man"

[dmitrixmolotov]

Blood is beginning to stain his plate with every cut that is sliced into the piece of meat. He doesn't take a bite of what has been cut beyond the first, attention stolen by his guest or next meal. The lines get blurred with ease, sometimes one in the same. He watches. The movements don't break his expression. He's stoic to a fault as if it's another tattoo on his skin, but it doesn't stop his eyes tracing her motions, tracking them while his knife slides one side to the other against the edge of the tablecloth, wiped clean, until one of those very edges plants itself against one of those very shoulders.

"This," he explains as he guides it down and then back gradually, feeling the corner of her collarbone through metal. "You do not learn this from me. I do not teach you flaws." And with a moment of passing, the cutlery tips up, pressure off of her but not away. "You roll away from your lies. They follow, ptichka. Bleed them.” The knife hovers close, but it doesn’t touch. “Tell me more and see."

dmitrixmolotov​:

“You admit you do.” As if her gameboard has been pivoted around, table its resting on a lazy susan, able to favor either one of them with the right spin. His trap within her own, intention as if it had always been there to prove she could let her guard down with closed eyes. “Easy target.” Not his. Not in her sleep. That has already been said. He will take her out when she’s staring right at him with him staring back. Maybe he will wake her up a moment before the bullet meets ignition; maybe he will be there when another tries to follow through with a threat that belongs only to him.

Eyes speak when lips don’t. She speaks of plain sight. He has a clear view, sees her without a veil of her own creation. It’s almost interwoven in her skin, sunlight peeking through where make-believe once was, unable to blind even with the sparkle he’s had a hand in furnishing.

“Smart is smart. Clean is job for custodian.” Together it’s cramped; apart it’s boring. It’s an old Russian proverb that seems most apt, even when it goes without saying or consciously conceived. He takes a bite of one of the other dishes instead. The quiche only has one piece taken out of it and it doesn’t belong to him. “You did not learn in mirror,” he tells her while his knife cuts another piece of the filet before him, pink meat barely away from being rare. “Your shoulders do not keep secrets.”

his retort causes a chuckle to catch in her throat, half heard but there all the same. she sleeps, yes indeed. it’s one of the necessary bodily functions, as sam would say. she was always cautious to not ask what the others were. claiming targets is as easy as throwing around empty threats, finding their way into the conversation before anything else can be said. definitions favor each of them, as does everything else when said correctly.

“oh they don’t?” amusement glitters across her expression. if he was right, then she would have hardly made it to where she is now. a tell a simple as  movement of the shoulders is easy to pick up on in their circles, and she’s not just sitting at this table by the grace of god. “what gave it away? was it the—” she rolls her shoulders, animated by their standards, waiting for him to repeat the gesture. “or when i shrug them, is it too much?” she’s about to laugh, it’s right there waiting for the moment to finally be released. “i didn’t learn from you, that’s what you need to know.”

[dmitrixmolotov]

Associate Name: Malachi Liddell

Country Affiliation: United Kingdom

Title: The Crown

Hierarchy Rank: Leader

Organization Name: Blood Diamonds

Industry: Gambling / Market Manipulation

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

the start of her comment is run through with the sound of steel on glass. she begins again, setting the plate in front of her as though it wasn’t an order but a choice. free will said she would like this quiche, misha is simply lucky. “you watch me sleep.” she finds her footing again, the smile that says it’s not a comment that’s up for debate. a perfect misconstruction of the facts, suitable to no narrative. she is not a heavy sleeper, he is not a stalker. she is creative in her dreams, he does not believe her enough yet. 

the quiche makes its way to her mouth, she waves away his insult. “i always have a threat.” perhaps not one aimed right at him, after all what’s the lack of dinner company— an arrow to the heart, something even less. but that doesn’t mean that there is no danger at all, that doesn’t mean that if provoked there would be no rise or ruin. “it’s about hiding in plain sight.” as though the secretary with two phones and a chanel hair clip signifies only the want of hollywood, nothing else. perhaps she is not plain, but no one has yet to consider that there is anything dangerous. at least almost no one. 

“boring is the word for boring. clean is the word for smart.” no one liked to get their hands dirty when it came to her line of entertainment. the best job was the one done without a trace. she had little use for getting messy when grounding every flight out of LAX, it is an equally applicable rule to every job. “and besides. i learned poker a while ago—you couldn’t call my bluff, even if i had one.”

"You admit you do." As if her gameboard has been pivoted around, table its resting on a lazy susan, able to favor either one of them with the right spin. His trap within her own, intention as if it had always been there to prove she could let her guard down with closed eyes. "Easy target." Not his. Not in her sleep. That has already been said. He will take her out when she's staring right at him with him staring back. Maybe he will wake her up a moment before the bullet meets ignition; maybe he will be there when another tries to follow through with a threat that belongs only to him.

Eyes speak when lips don't. She speaks of plain sight. He has a clear view, sees her without a veil of her own creation. It's almost interwoven in her skin, sunlight peeking through where make-believe once was, unable to blind even with the sparkle he's had a hand in furnishing.

"Smart is smart. Clean is job for custodian." Together it's cramped; apart it's boring. It's an old Russian proverb that seems most apt, even when it goes without saying or consciously conceived. He takes a bite of one of the other dishes instead. The quiche only has one piece taken out of it and it doesn't belong to him. "You did not learn in mirror," he tells her while his knife cuts another piece of the filet before him, pink meat barely away from being rare. "Your shoulders do not keep secrets."

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

she’s not going to die— immortality twisted up with vanity, a girl who was supposed to have already given up years ago in some bright flash. she thinks of sam in the briefest flicker, the idea of leaving so inconceivable it was as though one had already. names erased from the family roster. and yet she still breathed, quality of life had only improved. he says she’ll know, and maybe he’s right. maybe. 

“i’m very creative there.” after all, she exists best in the modes of intangibility, the overlap in systems where no one else has thought to build their lives. it’s not a dream, per-say, to build her own net worth from the insistence of possibility. but it does seem her relationships have gone the same way. dreams are a funny way of putting it, but they’re not far off the mark. she does have more invested in keeping him alive, dinner not withstanding. there’s nothing worth admitting, but unfortunately even less to deny. 

“i could play my games alone if you want to talk like that.” four letter words tripping over themselves to make something out of nothing. she shifts imperceptibly, thrown off by the implication there is something other than fun to be had in this city. but there’s no room to question, it would only lead to the kind of mockery that she would rather give than have to try and take. “less messy.”

He doesn't dwell on how she could count the creative ways of killing him. He doesn't linger on how he's found a way to be on her mind while away. They're skimming a surface that has a depth unknown, an ocean with no lifeguard on duty, and they will manage to keep it that way. "Keep dreaming." A knife from the place-set is twisted around between his fingers like second-nature, pointing to her to only reference her again. "You are not so much annoyance when asleep." The blade draws only through the first appetizer instead of blood, a slice of the quiche before it finds a home on a saucer. It's tapped once, a noise that translates to Take it. Move on.

Dmitri's eyes are in no rush when they meet hers. There's a vibration to the soundwaves that reach his ears, something that can't be placed into the right box. They may not have snapped to her quickly, but the vision holds her steady, firmly addresses her for a moment. It's a ripple in that ocean, a pop of a bubble from a creature below, but it pops all the same. "Try," he tells her. "Go do what you do not want. See how clean is another word for boring. You have bluff. Why talk like you have threat?"

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

she smirks, can’t help it, expression turns up with some enjoyment at his answer to the question. her back can’t see him, that’s true enough. but it’s not the only thing that’s conveyed by such a choice, if she were into psychoanalytic readings of death and the like. if. “just so i know it’s you.” the order goes over unfazed in its extravagance, a practice in spending enough money to pay her rent over twice. between the two of them, she enjoys one thing above all— liquidity. everything feels as though it’s just tangible enough. if she’d like the whole menu, it was achievable. if she wanted to go back to her apartment and drink cheap wine, there were options. a cosplay of both lives, firmly in neither. 

“no goodbye needed.” the waiter disappears again, she looks at the expanse of her pretend kingdom for the night. wind rustles, finally she thinks of the next ridiculous thing to say, pushing boundaries for the sake of it. “i’ll get you first.”

"No." He squashes her thought with ease, but not with the lightness of a breath, but of the definitive nature of it. The 'no' is as constant and inevitable as the air that will always find a way in his lungs. "You die by my hand. There is no other. You know who without eyes." If it is not him, it is no one. That is the rule. She lives because he has not pointed a gun at her; she lives because he won't allow anyone else the chance to. It's simple, requires no further thought.

She thinks differently, on a different wavelength, where he is the target instead. They are spinning roulette, a wheel with a barrel and a bullet to plunge itself through it, spinning around and around, unstoppable by the hands that keep twisting it. He is not concerned. "You kill me in your dreams. Only there," he amends. "You have more with me alive, Ptichka. You cannot kill me without killing what you love. That is why I kill you first."

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

“i didn’t tell her that.” it doesn’t mean that she’s unaware of the conspiracy theory that’s trying to creep its way through the walls of their apartment. in the absence of a logical answer to the problem of rent, zoe is trying her best. it’s not good enough to get near the truth, but she still admires her roommate for trying. “i’m just a secretary.” her grin highlights only one thing, they both know that it’s not the truth. but she kind of likes the heiress angle, it gives her an excuse to buy a few extra things for the place. “enough rope and all.”

she looks down at the menu, eyes searching out the most exciting parts of the menu. most of the time that finds an association with price, but she’s learned to forget about money in the past few years. one person is easier to support than five, a dinner is nothing but a drop in the ocean. “the kobe filet.” she picks one, leaving the next part of the meal for him to choose. some might call that balance, but mostly it just makes things more fun. “shoot me head on, right?” 

What she does with the roommate is her business, as long as it doesn't interfere with his. That is the root of it. She is playing pretend for pretend's sake, and that is for her to deal with. Dmitri still watches her with eyes that might as well have been cut from marble, her words at least enough to make his mouth shrug dismissively. Rope is not enough. "Dead meat hangs better with hooks." His advice is there to take while he waits for her to pick what cut to eat.

A hand gestures for the waiter at the other end without further discussion, but the length of the walk gives way to an already old topic. He returns to her, almost amused if you can spot the subtle glint in dark eyes. "To let you say good-bye to me?" This lands in a grey area of where a joke might lie, but he soon shakes his head. She should know the answer to her question without asking. "I want you to look in my eyes when I pull trigger. Your back cannot see me." There's barely a beat that's afforded, a waiter before them and an order relayed.

"One of each."

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

“i say it.” means nothing on its own, even less when paired with his description. one day, she supposes, she will go missing. there’s nothing to be done about that except make sure that it’s voluntary. no one last long in prometheus, and stays happy anyways. thoughts are far more preoccupied with the possible future than the tangible present where threats are doled out and she’s nothing more than a thoughtful bystander. people who get up so easily are weak, but she’s in no position to argue against the seat that’s opened up for her. 

“no foul play?” eyes stay wide as though she’s contemplating her fall from grace. how very impressive that would be if everyone could just trust that she was that clumsy, that ill-fated. “i should have left a note on the counter.” for the journalist in zoe to truly shine. “she knows i would never accidentally fall off a building.”

"You say not so right." He barely bats an eye when his head shifts, the passing gesture that greets a circling fly, some insect that's already wound up stitched on her finger. The menu in front of him, abandoned by exiled guest, will remain untouched, an unacknowledged piece of decoration for a table plucked into ownership, free of premeditated murder, for now. "Not from me. I do not shove you, ptichka." It's assurance. He would never. "I do not need you to fall to kill you. I have gun. I shoot you." And yet the hand moves in a way to have her look at the food that's written down in front of them. Pick something.

"She knows nothing." Basic fact. Nothing personal. He's read enough from the journalist's laptop to know without doubt. "What do you tell her? You are heiress?"

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

she knows these sorts of agreements hold meaning, that she has to be a girl of her word. he has to be a man of his. otherwise nothing would stand between them. certainly laws didn’t. so a small tattoo, design unknown. easy enough, it wasn’t like anyone had noticed yet. if she had one tattoo, she’s had two. “fine.” agreement made, trust implicit— though maybe not yet fully earned. 

the door opens for her, and she makes sure she has both phone and bag before getting out. not long enough to push, but certainly not jumping at the command. as if they’d gone anywhere. “if you want to trap me, you’ll have to do better.” but she’s out of the car, it can shut behind her without incident. “smart kidnapper wouldn’t waste money on dinner.”

"Who says I kidnap you?" The door catches the latch, locked instantly with supposed captive on the outside. "You are never found. That is not kidnapping. That is missing. No body. No crime." Among other potential wordings that can be used to describe sudden disappearances. But Birdie is in no more danger than she usually is, in spite of appearances that accompany acquaintances. It helps when Russian kidnappers hold doors to restaurants for you, or when they walk in with ownership in their stride, leading to the rooftop with stifled protest from staff.

"You move now." Hands simply rest on the back of a chair that is occupied, attached to a table that's shaded and with a view. With the right incentives, there is compromise reached. He will take the seat while the other is able to use their legs to find another. Birdie will take the one that was never used, already pulled out. "We are close to edge," he notes for her with a nod to the side, pointing out where the building drops off to pavement. "You can make escape from kidnapping.--One body. One accident."

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

“i didn’t do it for you.” cat and mouse, hand caught in the middle as she thinks about her tattoo. she hadn’t really. she noticed it, as she did a few things about dmitri molotov. but she happened to like this one, and why shouldn’t she do whatever she wanted. it made sense anyways, a joke that even he got right away. 

“okay. my next tattoo.” as though she weren’t particularly intrigued by the idea. this was just a one off, a thought she had and managed to follow through on. sometimes they were simple, sometimes not so much. it just depended on her mood. the difference between pliable and agreeable, though she wasn’t known for her linguistics. “as long as it’s small.”

"Not for me. For you?" he returns, echoing her statement back to her with his own revisions. "Worse." This is the new fact, and it's dropped on her head without a look back at her, eyes on the road while focus remains shared. Easier to do when the gear is shifted into reverse, the sharp turn of the reserved spot being filed into. There is no reservation belonging to him besides his say so. It will stand as law in the minutes to come.

"I choose what," he reiterates what has been agreed to tacitly as the engine is cut off, key removed, eyes meeting. "I choose where." She can have her small, leaving her with the terms as he steps out, door shutting behind him. A button threads through the blazer as he moves, no rush as he rounds the front corners of the maserati until the passenger side is pulled open. "Get out before I shut door on you."

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

she pondered this statement, the laughter already given out freely for its commentary. it was funny, but it might have also been right. who was to say which one mattered more. she had her job because it entertained her, this was merely an extension of that. “i like to get him out of his comfort zone.” there were some people that were so set in their ways, unable to bend to what life offered, whether in fear or ignorance. maybe it was her life’s work to break them of those habits, maybe she was just bored. 

“i don’t need to keep up.” but there’s too much of a smile on her face to take herself seriously. he pulls her hand up, she yanks it back down. the small beetle looks as though it’s struggling to take flight. it is a joke for one that has now become two by sharpness of eye. maybe it was always meant to be so, but she hadn’t put much stock into who would see it, only that she knew it would be there. “i didn’t get it for you.” she tries to pull her hand away again, all gesture and no force. she’s not sure if he would actually let go if she tried. she’s not sure she minds. “it’s just ink.”

"You see what I have."--she pulls her hand--"You copy from memory."--he tugs it back--"But you do not get for me," he repeats back to her, summarizes the tale in sharp focus, crooking the tattoo to call it as witness and proof. "You lie with no sense. Not even your smile believes you." Misha's fingers retract from her, lets the hand fall back to wherever she wants it to. His own does not return to the steering wheel to join its mate, the arm lies on the console between himself and passenger instead, expanding in the space that's momentarily shared. "Your next tattoo I do," he tells her, states it as inescapable fact while the car turns again, restaurant in sight. "This is just ink." The head twists to shoot a glance to her, a personal delivery in the echo. "Why stop?"

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

“well, he types.” clattering away as though mastering a keyboard might be more difficult than landing on the moon. her involvement in the contracts was directly tied to how interesting they were. lately, everything had been safe, or was the word boring. or maybe she was just distracted by other games. she doesn’t feel an pressing need to try and define her feelings about either option. 

“you can celebrate anything.” though her heart isn’t exactly in the image of roasting marshmellows any more than making a bonfire of her car. its only real purpose is chatter while his hand moves up hers, searching out the small piece of ink that could be covered by ring or concealer. but instead, it’s been left out for the discerning eye. “i can think of better desserts anyways.” ones that didn’t involve so much effort but for better reward. “s’mores. that’s the word.”

"He is secretary." Dryness in his tone. Untrained ears take it as gospel. More discerning ones will know there is a joke buried underneath layers of heavy concrete. All you need is a jackhammer to peel them back. "What do you do with him?" Keep him stored in a closet, make him sit, train him to come when he's called. There is only so much that can be done with him, even without officially meeting him.

A sharp turn is made, one hand stretching the limit of the wheel, the other tugging the thumb that's in his grip to keep his windshield from being painted. One part is direction, one part is response to what more she has told him and what little she has said. "What is this?" he repeats with another small yank upward to make it clearer than it already was. He doesn't need to look at her or it to further the point. "You need to keep up with me, ptichka? You will need more than this."

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

“do i have to bring marshmellows if i say yes?” arson seems such a big ask for a nice night, especially if it only produced a minor inconvenience in her life. but she’d found that saying no to things flat out always resulted as something much less interesting. she’ll settle for dinner, the rest is left up to a coin flip. 

she doesn’t have to think about it long with the comment about fabian catching her attention. she chuckles, little man. yes indeed, but she wasn’t going to be the one to say it to his face. she liked him exactly how he was, filled with just enough confidence to keep doing his job. it left so much free space for her to roam. “you’re on a first name basis with my boss?” mr. bishop wouldn’t be so pleased with an informality, but she found it amusing to say the least. “he writes the checks around here.” as though she was the kind of person that needed that nine to five. she watches him drive, and then tips her hand just a little. either he’ll get it, or he won’t, and she will adjust from there. “and the contracts.”

"Marshmallows?" A brow arches, questioning a missing piece of pure Americana. There is no such thing that lives in his memories, no scrap of the type of camping that is done by scouts or families with small 2.5 children. "This is tradition? Celebrate anything with sugar. Stupid. Bring them. They are dessert."

He couldn't care less. There are other points of conversation, other cars to pass, other laughs to hear. "He writes nothing," he amends, blunt voice tossed out like an axe, just as nonchalantly as someone who does it all the time. Fabian Bishop means little to him. He is only a figure in a life that often runs parallel to his own, if not perpendicular sometimes. It is in his best interest to know those that can come along with that life. Nothing more. "He hires you. You take what contracts are more easy. No one questions." That is the play he sees. They're not exactly questions, more like statements that are dared to be proven wrong.

There's a flashing glance to her, the movement that she does that catches his attention. His eyes are on the road, but his vision remains deciphering what was captured. He doesn't waste time. His hand drags up hers by the thumb, fingers acting like a claw that's captured some prize for a mere fifty cents. "What is this?"

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

“just dinner and a show.” an insurance payout would have meant that the car had any to speak of, that it hadn’t just been driven with the intention of dropping it somewhere. if it burned, all that went with it was the evidence that it had ever existed at all. she doesn’t know what’s actually going to be done, but she’s resolute in just watching and waiting. the worst case scenario was always nothing at all. but she wasn’t in the car with a man who was known for his inaction. 

she’s just about to reach for the seat belt when the car switches lanes and it seems like the point was already proven. to put it on now would just be cheating fate, and what was the fun of that. “i like it.” length of time was of no consequence to her, if there was comfort then there was nothing wrong. and beyond that, there was entertainment. “i have an office, and you’d love my boss.”  the thought brings a laugh to the surface, how could she not take the opportunity when reminded of fabian’s pinched faced annoyance at her inability the file a memo properly. “you just have to give it a chance.”

"You want to come watch? Say good-bye to her?" The evening's plans are forming as they go along, a destination in mind that goes beyond a rooftop restaurant and now a parking deck could be anywhere. It often is. There is no reason to change the formula that they usually follow the whims of. Just like there is no reason for him to tell her a second time about her seatbelt, noticed that it was missing long before his foot hit the pedal that's caused them to duck three lanes already. They match in their disregard, always something better to focus on than the rules of safety or the boundaries of mortality.

"What is this boss?" he asks, the sidelong look of curiosity and judgment all in one before the eyes flicker back to the windshield. "Fabian is name?" There is one hand on the steering wheel, thumb wrapped around the edge, tattoo beneath a ring outstretched from the grip. "Little man."

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

“well if you know the tank is empty, you could always fill it.” she has no intention of using the car any time soon. it sits in one of the two designated parking spaces for their building and gives her the appearance that she might just one day want to drive herself somewhere instead of relying on an endless stream of ubers and goodwill. but it will stay, because he’s right— it’s mostly out of gas. and there’s still some desert sand in the floorboards that make it too messy to bother. 

she pauses just for a moment where the door is waiting for her, looking up at him. they’re going to dinner, it hardly lasts the beat before she laughs finally, “it’s a nice decoration.” added an air of mystery to her life, another puzzle piece that couldn’t fit for someone who didn’t already have the answer. and with that she settles into the car, making sure she’s tucked in far away enough from the door that will slam just as soon as she does. but the brief pause gives her enough time to pose the next annoying rather than genuine question, “you think i should get a tesla?”

"Why? You need insurance money?" She doesn't. He knows it. But the chance to take out the heap that sits abandoned in a parking deck is fine enough for him. It would only take one controlled spark for it to explode. He turns his head to her casually, the idea simple, the game easy, nodding once with reaffirming eyes. "I do this for you." And he almost seals it with the door shutting, stopping the swing he hasn't released to inertia yet, attention on her suggestion instead. The Maserati is open by a gap that is folded around by his own being, one arm on the body of the car, the other on the window's frame, eyes down to view her.

"Put on seatbelt." The hand pushes forward before another word can be let out, door slammed back into its rightful place. His own advice is ignored as the engine comes alive, pulling out and onto the street, slipping through whatever lane will allow him the most track. "How is play with Prometheus? This is long for you."

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

she’s not soft now, but she’s not sure that she’s ever been. there is no moment in her childhood where she came to the realization that she needed to be tougher than the world around her, but it’s naturally seemed to fall in her favor. how else would she give a charmed smile and nothing more— step out of the elevator as though it was possible mere moments before that she might not have made it. was it possible? she didn’t think so. 

besides he said it, she didn’t even have to. “sounds like you’re driving too.” she technically has a car here, taking up a parking space that was dutifully paid for every month. but she hardly ever used it, preferring the happy-go-lucky stance of ubers. it was easy when money was no object, when the destination wasn’t known all the same. “no i’m appropriately ready for a four course meal.” 

His lips move without disguise, the clearest viewpoint of a man who is incredulous and insulted in tandem to the noise they make out of one corner. "Of course I drive. What is alternative?" The way his attention is directed on her shows he knows before he speaks, dark eyes doused in more smugness than annoyance, if they were ever truly irritated before at all. "Toyota of yours with empty tank?" Outside of the complex is reached, the lights of the Maserati flashing with the takeover of two spaces instead of one. "You keep tires for decoration," he tells her as the passenger side is flung open with one jerking swing, wider than she could ever need, hand of his grasping the top edge of the door in wait.

[dmitrixmolotov]

birdiejennings​:

“pasha doesn’t study the nasdaq.” or shift it, depending on her mood. still, there’s enjoyment spread across her face in the form of a smirk. though she has deliberately chosen the people that she spends most of her time with, allows them to create any image of her they might desire, there is something nice about being able to say the first thing that comes to mind. what’s the worst that could happen, it’s returned with another comment? what’s the worst there is to know? she’s confident misha has done worse. it’s not an insult, and it doesn’t scare her. it simply is. “they’d be out of the apartment, think of his poor fur.”

there will be less banter when she’s busy eating, all the more reason to get it in now, before she’s absorbed with whatever fine dining that’s been procured. high maintenance was never a word that she would have used to describe herself, after all she’d managed just fine sleeping on a couch and making marie callendar’s. but now, it seemed an expected part of the role, and she was learning to fit it. 

“you know if you’d prefer silence i can always leave you to it.”

"No, no." He shakes his head, but only once or twice, definitive but not forceful, a motion that is only swayed by facts and accessorized by promise. "Pasha would not be out of apartment." She's looked at, sidelong expression attached, splitting her relations into their respective tiers of importance. "You speak for roommate and her fur. She can live where you found her."

He is not here to rearrange her living situation, though. If she's happy, then he won't demolish it. It's something likely akin to a child building a sandcastle on the beach; you know it can be constructed better, but it's watched instead of redone in your image. Today, the Gucci logo will not be imprinted on it from the bottom of his shoe. Besides, what would he do with all the silence that would come with it?

The elevator dings, doors open, Misha's hand gestures for her to walk out. "You have gone this far," he tells her. "When have you give me what I want? Are you soft now? Go."