wemultitudinous

[wemultitudinous]

i am whispering a quiet wish into the night: it's been so long since i wrote soft, shippy content

[wemultitudinous]

Pavel scrambles, inelegant.

He's all limbs at the best of times, conscious sometimes of his slight figure and restless countenance, especially in contrast with his peers and superiors, most of whom have found or learned a certain, ready stillness.

Right now, he almost trips and arms pinwheel to steady himself; he doesn't bother to take the time to correct himself but simply hopes that stumbling feet can carry momentum well enough for the task at hand. One hand presses to a flat spur of metal to help lever himself through and the sharp pain of burning draws a yelp from his mouth but doesn't slow his progress as he grits his teeth and squeezes through.

He trusts, of course, that Spock that will indeed follow, but he turns back and watches with anxious eyes nonetheless.

"We will have to figure out our route as we go," he says, wide gaze flickering to the devastation of the corridor. "It is impossible to tell what is clear, and as for stability..."

As if in answer, there's a creak and a groan.

"My recommendation is that we move quickly, sir," he says, and then - because his limbs are trembling and so is his heart, but bravery is a choice, he smiles. "Of course, for this purpose, you could hope for no better companion."

Watch anybody tease him for his academy race times after this.

Everything careens down into those final seconds. Coiling his body, Spock stands astride, weight distributed in precise angles to prepare him for flinging forward and keeping the door ajar, or to flee in the instance of shrapnel. Spock’s confidence in Chekov is further than the probability pulsating behind his eyelids, second set blinking before the next to carve out the smoke in his eyes.

                                    He hears two shots, rapid and precise, and through the haze, the effect is immediate. The panel erupts in tinny sparks and hissing metal; the door groans, gears loud and straining from where it recedes into the wall, jolting abruptly before it slides apart. But glancing relief, it is only a momentary success. The doors stutter, coughing to stay open. He snaps forward, quickly jamming the bar into the slim space revealing the destroyed hallway on the either side.

The movement puts Spock flush on one side of the opening. There is less smoke, no fire that he can see. Though, he can scent the tint of leaking coolant as the ringing of klaxon alarms become more apparent to him. Red light streams across half of Spock’s face and his chest. It tells him systems failure was likely more imminent than he initially presumed.

“ Hurry, ” wayward plasteel digs into Spock’s shoulder, warm and too hot for a human to withstand. The way will not be open for long. “ I will succeed you. ”

[wemultitudinous]

does anyone know anyone the locked tomb roleplayers and/or has anyone read the locked tomb series and would want to write crossover or au asking for a friend (me i'm the friend)

[wemultitudinous]

Pavel breathes all the way in, throat catching against the smoke, and then pushes the acrid air from his lungs, steadying himself. This is not an exact science; for all that he knows back to front the specifications of the phaser in his hands and the door in front of him, maths cannot account for what he can't see. Who knows in what way the internal mechanisms of the door have been damaged, or what might be on the other side of it.

Still, the theory is sound. Two concentrated pulses; the first to damage the shielding and the second to rupture the hydraulics, releasing the pressure that holds the door closed. If there's enough power still leaking into the circuit despite the sparks and the damage, the door will slide open.

Or at the very least, it will attempt to do so. The warped and buckled metal means they will not have much room to squeeze through - assuming that the door will stay open, and further malfunction won't push it closed again.

"Ready," he repeats to himself. He digs his feet in for stability, body slightly angled so that if anything terrible and unexpected should come through the door, he can hope to have some chance of shouldering Spock out of the way. Shoulders set and no other recourse left to him, he squeezes the trigger twice in quick succession.

                                                      The ship’s hull stutters and chokes, shaking with fever. Eyes flickering from left to right, up and down, Spock estimates that remaining in this room beyond another ten point seven minutes will result in one of two options:

Of the first: it is that the smoke will continue to flow out the vents and into this space, eventually encompassing every nook and crevice and corner until there’s nothing left but darkness. They will suffocate anyway, and likely Chekov first.

Second: the fire spreads and burns, melting metals and eating at flesh until it consumes them, too. There will be nothing to find, nothing to bury, nothing but ash and teeth.

Grimly, Spock nods. “ Mister Scott will understand. ”

He finds a loose rod that had come apart in the initial attack on the ship. It is sturdy inside his hands, just long enough to utilize as a block should the door try to shut on them. An attempt is better than conceding to death. And that is something they will not be doing today. He moves off to the side.

“ Ready. ”

[wemultitudinous]

yes hello friends as you may have noticed i am very tentatively trialling a return to writing, which i've missed a great deal but which has been a struggle for some time now due to mental health situation and lack of free time!

i've cut my muse list right down, and i've emptied my drafts. if anyone wants to try out writing something low-pressure with my available muses, just send me a message!

[wemultitudinous]

A shiver rolls down Pavel's spine, at that; the thought of the air being pressed slowly from his lungs more unsettling than the thought of making it through the battered door.

"Yes, Mr Spock, sir," he says in fervent agreement. He's already running his eyes over the remaining wiring, recalling the blueprints and schematics, extrapolating just how far they've been compromised and coming to an inevitable conclusion.

"Please don't tell Mr. Scotty," he says, earnestly, and unsheathes a phaser from his belt. He runs his eyes once more over the damaged frame of the door - measure twice, cut once, that is what his mother always used to say to him - and tips his head at Spock. "There is regrettably a small chance that this may cause some moderate structural damage."

As if parts of the room aren't already smoke-blackened and warped. Still, it seems polite to acknowledge.

"Ready?"

                                                  The room has stilled save for the violent storm on the other side of the door. Spock watches on impassively as it hisses and sparks, angry and too hot to be pried away with only his hands. If he could offer an alternative solution, perhaps, he would have done so by now. He looks between Chekov and the panel, deliberating as the scent of melting metals is accompanied by a groan. They do not have much time.

“ Our only other path is through the ventilation system, ” the route is small, billowing ash and smoke; he does not think it wise, “ We risk suffocation. Open it. ”

[wemultitudinous]

@fasciinating // pavel & spock

the door is sparking, abrupt and angry staccato bursts of plasma and electricity from cracked tubes and torn wiring. there's a pained whirring sound, almost like an injured beast with its leg in a trap, whining. the metal is buckled inwards towards them, like on the other side, the fist of some vengeful god had tried to stave it in. pavel swallows nervously, and glances over at commander spock.

"i may be able to get it open," he says, and his hand cuts a gesture in the air. "however. are you sure that we wish to get it open?"

[wemultitudinous]

me reading a book series and getting so feral about it that i log back in to this account like maybe butch space lesbian is what brings me back from the constant brink of writing burnout

hi everyone

[wemultitudinous]

fasciinating​:

                       HER ANSWER IS NOTHING LIKE the wave of relief it should have been. The choice was not an easy one to make—they are asking to cut someone open, to flay them alive, and strip their bones piece by piece in search of an answer, a cure. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one. And not just anyone. Someone that matters, that today, and yesterday, and the day before that had a name, a face, a connection to the person Spock is standing with, that Spock cares about, that Spock would offer himself to instead a million times over, knowing the stakes in this are so personal. He supposes all of it is in a way. Their people are dying and dead. Rotting from the inside out and their hearts—their humanity—stolen into the darkness only to be replaced by unending hunger and more, more, more. He thinks of them all the time. In his sleep. While he’s awake. He’s thinking about them right now. Between his ears, it is the sound of a hoarse scream that can’t quite articulate itself, wandering forever, always, as the sight of decay and vacant expression fill in behind his eyelids. They could have done something. Tried harder. Been more vigilant or stronger or something. But weren’t they? What Spock feels in the pit of his stomach is a vicious cycle of blame and guilt, of retracing every step and test vial that replays itself over and over and over until the clink of glass tubes in his head were just a new habit of grinding his teeth. He wished to spare her more of the same. Somehow, her conviction seems to cleave through the wear on his mind, dissolving the band of hopelessness he feels in his chest—even if for a little while. In hearing it, in seeing the smile that slips across Evie’s lips when she looks at him, Spock feels his eyes crease, softening fractionally, impossibly dark brown and in a way he’s uncertain has ever displayed on his face. It’s not relief, just then, the sensation that rises under his skin, a slow-crawling heat that flushes across the back of Spock’s neck, that twists his brows and parts his lips, that leaves logic behind when Evie reaches for his shoulder. Without thinking, Spock moves to capture it under his palm. His fingers cover her smaller hand, squeezing gently in admiration. They are doing something. And Evie, potentially Char, they’ll be doing something more. “No,” he’s sure of it, that she’s wrong. But in all the right ways, “It is everything.”

Her face, all steely resolve and determination, cannot help but soften when his hand covers hers. He is such a buttoned-up man, all straight lines and logic, hard to read. To see him express his feelings in such a human way is surprising. Somehow reassuring. No matter how they both might wish to face this with dignity and cool logic, there is a part of them that can’t view it as anything so simple. And this gentle touch, a squeeze of the hand, is a promise between them. You are not alone. We do this together.

She lets out a brisk breath and a smile, and steps away. The very act of it breaks the tension that has been piling up around them, burying them in a cocoon of quiet worry. Shattered, the night seems suddenly cooler, less claustrophobic.

“Tomorrow,” she says decisively. “There’s no point right now.”

Some might call it cowardice, putting off the conversation she’ll have to have -  but in these decaying days, a night’s good sleep is a rarity, and not something she’ll interrupt for someone else if she can help it. Let Char have a peaceful night and face the conversation with the morning sun, when everything feels a little brighter. It’s not much, but the small kindnesses mean even more, these days.

“And we ought to get back. Doubtless they’ve finished perimeter sweep by now and set up for the night; I shouldn’t like to be shot on the way back in because somebody’s trigger finger got a little too nervous.” Or eaten by mindless zombies, of course, because that risk goes without saying. Strange how, even though it’s now their reality, most people will avoid speaking of it as much as they can. The human mind will push away what it doesn’t want to confront with quite impressive determination.

“Come on.” She pauses, focusing on Spock’s face for a long moment. “Unless you’d like some time away from... all that.” She gestures back towards their camp, to the boisterous camaraderie that helps them get through long, dark nights, but which can be claustrophobic sometimes, inescapable.

[wemultitudinous]

omniishambles​:

        * * *

 Elise gave a quiet sigh, briefly closing her eyes. She didn’t like to have this conversation, but neither could she let it lie. How could she try and give comfort to this young woman if she didn’t also try to warn her about what could be happening?

   “I’ve heard of a number of entities that follow people. They attach themselves, dark entities, like a parasite. They feed on the fear they cause you, trying to weaken your resolve until they have an opportunity to take hold of you.”

 She reached for the ends of her scarf, a comfort reflex. Even after so many years, she still didn’t like to talk about this, but it was necessary. To give a non human entity any recognition was to draw them to you, to get their direct attention. 

 Whatever this thing was? Alex had inadvertently gotten its attention. And her investigation could be making things worse.

   “Some people are good at astral projection. Some people are great at it, from a very young age. Their soul leaves their body at night and they think of the places they travel to as nothing but dreams. But there are places where the living were never meant to go- and things can follow us back from those places. Terrible things. I don’t know how this entity has attached itself to you, but the connection is weak. They haven’t started to affect your life in the day time- but they will. Unless we can figure out a way to deter them.”

        * * *

The short speech, reluctant as it is, leaves Alex with a lot to take in, and too many questions to frame at once. Several of them chase each other around behind the cage of her teeth until one wins the race, and escapes.

“Astral projection?” she asks. “Isn’t that like - an out of body experience?”

She can’t help the touch of doubt that creeps its way into her tone. It shouldn’t; not with the things she’s seen, and the conversation they’re currently having. But it’s one thing to believe in ghosts or demons, in something following her, and quite another to be told that her soul can leave her body for a nighttime stroll. She shakes her head once, firmly, trying to ground herself in the openness she ought to maintain, as a journalist.

“I’m sorry, I just - I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone talk about it before, not really. So you’re saying I might have gone... somewhere? And she found me?” A shiver trips down her spine just at the thought, and suddenly the sleepless nights were some unformed worry prevents her from drifting off seem all the more reasonable. “But what would she want from me?”

And then her brain catches up with the rest of the conversation.

“Affect my life in the day?” Her fingers flex, unconsciously, gripping the table hard until her knuckles whiten. “That’s not - I mean, she can’t hurt me, can she? It’s a dream. A horrible dream, but...”

She trails off, swallowing hard. Some part of her wishes she had never come here, never had this conversation; God knows she’s having enough trouble sleeping as it is. But maybe Elise can help, maybe she can stop it. Alex steels her resolve.

“What do I do?”

[wemultitudinous]

apophenist​:

   That isn’t at all what he’d meant, but Alex does not give him the opportunity to elaborate before drawing a clumsy conclusion and accepting it as plausible fact. Not outside of the norm for her, which feels like a cruel if true thought to entertain; he is wise enough to bite his tongue. At this hour, he would expect nothing more or nothing less than the desperate attempts of a troubled workaholic to continue functioning.

   It is tempting to bristle himself, and he can feel his expression tightening a little, right along with the muscles in his shoulders, but Alex’s peace offering comes swiftly on the heels of her accusation, and he’s never quite been able to avoid succumbing to the tired softness that concludes a moment of tension. If anything, this swift shift indicates to him that he had been right to be concerned.

   “I assume most of them are either staged,” he says by way of agreement, because of course he will offer his expertise now that he is here. There’s scarcely anything else for him to do, as if he would not have something to interject whether Alex had specifically asked for his opinion or not. “Or ordinary things caught on camera, that listeners have imbued with the paranormal simply because they have been listening.” His fingertips lightly drum the side of his cup. “It’s on their mind. A current fixation. There’s a reason people are encouraged not to watch a horror film, for example, directly before bed.”

   Then, because she has offered him a wordless apology of sorts, he is inspired to respond in kind by backtracking a bit. “If you’re after my travel points, I don’t believe that was a part of the arrangement.” 

“Apophenia,” she intones solemnly, a deliberately poor imitation of Strand’s own voice, but she can’t help the fond-amused-irritated tone that quirks the edges of the word like a smile. Her tired brain fleetingly touches on the idea of buying him a t-shirt that says APOPHENIA in stark, black font, so that he can just point to it every time she starts talking. But then again, he wouldn’t ever wear it, would he? She’s never seen him in anything quite so casual as that. Always put-together. They must make an odd couple sometimes, when they’re out and about together; Alex in her bright colours and casual clothes and Strand in his formal-looking muted tones. “Probably. But still, some of them are... weird.”

She queues up the footage submitted by one listener, filmed on a cell phone. It’s dark, so the quality is middling - God forbid anyone capture evidence of the supernatural in 1080p, it’s always grainy - but the hands that seem to appear pressing against the window are... unsettling. She’s peered hard at it, and is certain there isn’t anyone outside. Just pale digits that appear and disappear seemingly at random, mocking the person filming, whose shaking voice gets wilder and wilder the more he demands to know what they want.

“Arrangements change,” she laughs, and pushes back her chair, standing and lifting her hands above her head as she stretches, realising just how long she’s been sitting in this chair. “For instance, 2am coffee also wasn’t part of the arrangement.” She plucks up her own mug, and gestures it vaguely. “Unless you’re planning to actually get some sleep after this.”

[wemultitudinous]

povvertaken​:

In a thousand half-ignored daydreams, Elfriede has contemplated a life with Uhtred. Out from the shadows, free from secrecy. Such thoughts drifted through her mind with increasing frequency as she stayed with him. If she had not been a creature of strategy and thought, if she had been a simpler woman, such things might already be in her grasp. She prayed to the Goddess, and the Goddess gave her what she wanted: a life with Uhtred. But nothing comes from nothing, and to live this life, she must kill the old one.

What life is she leaving behind? Whatever welcome she had expected on her return to Wihtwara, to be treated as a traitor and left to rot in a cell seemed impossible. Now, she stands in a convent garden, full to the brim with the awful knowledge that Uhtred is her only escape. The two lives have been made clear to her, as clear as night and day and life and death. To remain in Wihtwara is to be without power, without family, without affection. To become a caged woman. To live with Uhtred, as his wife, grants her freedom. He has already shown he listens to her guidance, and she knows the comfort to be found in the circle of his arms.

She cannot pretend to ignore the bitterness and rage coursing through Uhtred’s manner, nor the exhaustion that seeps in to the space between his brows. Tentatively, afraid of his reaction, she rests her palm against the back of his hand. Beneath his skin, the muscles and tendons pull into a taut fist. He is ever a creature of action, all fire and movement. Like a notched arrow, he is pointed forwards, flying there regardless of the consequences. She would tell him that his offer is to gracious, that she would be honoured to call him her husband. But the words that tumble from his mouth, unguarded, send her thoughts scattering.

He looks to me as Lady of Coccham already.

It is true. They have played at marriage, withdrawing to their secrets and their freedoms. She blows out air from behind pursed lips, fingers gripping on reflexively. The weight of what they are doing settles around her, not the politics of convincing Goderic but the change to their relationship. It is no change at all, and yet it changes everything. She ought to have known the lingering looks Uhtred gave her were more than simple lust, that she crossed courtship boundaries and kept crossing them. If only she knew a little more of Dane traditions!

Anger bubbles in her, anger that she has performed as his wife to the knowledge of all and sundry in Coccham. She feels foolish, feels like he has played her as a fool. He has spent the last year treating her as a wife and she, none the wiser, pushed her feelings from her and remained steadfast to a path that no longer served. She sets her jaw, swallowing hard and working to keep her voice low and calm. 

“I might have liked to know before now that all this time I have paraded as your wife. But it is done now, and cannot be undone.” She releases her grip on his hand, fingers curling into vicious, small fists. “I recognise that this plan is good, and I am grateful for the sacrifice you make. Any woman would be proud to stand by your side as your wife.” She sighs out a breath, thoughts and feelings tangling in an uncontrollable way. She doesn’t feel like herself. She feels like some strange creature, between two worlds and unable to parse her own internal chaos.

“I will be as good a wife to you as I can, Uhtred. You deserve a love match - and I am sorry that we find ourselves in a political one. At least we do not hate each other.” She delivers what she hopes is a joke, but it comes out strange, almost strangled by tears.

Her soft hand against his, rough and angry, ought to soothe him. Instead, it only makes it harder to stand still and talk upon their lives like some distant strangers who will not live it. A reminder of half-stolen moments and of the softness she carries around beneath sword-iron skin, hardened and tempered by years of politics and circumstance. 

“I did not ask you to,” he says, affronted by the truth of the matter; caught out at having delighted in the things she did not understand. Few enough people would have looked at her - sharing a cup, or racing the menfolk, or presenting some gift of her thankfulness, and seen what he saw. Sihtric aside, of course. But Sihtric had never mentioned it, until --

“It was no trick. I did not lead you to a trap. I learned long ago that what means one thing to the norseman means another to a Christian, and again to a Jute. What ought I have done? Refused your gifts and sent you away? It meant nothing, and so I let it mean nothing.”

Aside from the way in which he let it mean everything. There is shame rising up in him, now, at that, and it only fuels his anger. It should have been a secret that he indulged in, and no more. Once she returned to Wihtwara, it would have been nothing but a memory for him to look to in the dark hours of the night when he lay alone, feeling the emptiness of a bed once warmed by the soft shape of her body. To have it all in the open, in the daylight, all secrets revealed to her clever sight, leaves him feeling all too exposed.

“Now, let it mean your freedom. At least there is that.”

Bitterness, again. When will the sharp taste of it leave his tongue? Or will it always be like this from now, each honey-sweet press of lips to lips made hollow by the knowledge of what led to it? He sweeps the thought aside, startled by her words. At least we do not hate each other. He finds his hands cradling her face, without thought or realisation. There’s a line between her brow that ought not be there, and tears dancing just out of reach in her eyes.

“Give it time,” he suggests, all tired amusement. “I’ve seen plenty of husbands and wives grow sick of each other.” 

It’s easier than saying I could never hate you, which sounds trite and and false in his mouth. Certainly easier than speaking his love, to drop it into this cavernous space that has abruptly grown between them. He wants to kiss her, but he won’t. The Gods must know how she resents him, now. Still, she feels fragile under his hands, and he pulls her close to press his lips against her forehead, to feel her close against him.

“I will go to Goderic now. This place is not for you. I would not have you spend another minute in its walls.” 

[wemultitudinous]

and like, obviously i’ve been away for so long that there’s no obligation to pick up the threads again. i’m just writin’. i’m not going to be offering new threads right now because i don’t know if my writing mood will stick, but moots feel free to hop into my ims to discuss if you want.

i don’t want to alarm anyone, but there are some things in the queue

[wemultitudinous]

i don’t want to alarm anyone, but there are some things in the queue

[wemultitudinous]

THEY CALL HER THE LOST LADY OF WIHTWARA.

          WE IN NORTHUMBRIA CALL HER QUEEN.

// @povvertaken the season 5 we deserve

[wemultitudinous]

povvertaken​:

DCI Ragnarsson is not what Elfriede expected.

The man from the image on file is there, in the set of the jaw and the straight nose, but everything else is entirely messier. His hair is tied in the approximation of a bun at the base of his neck, the kind of scruffy thing that would make her childhood ballet teacher wince and shriek in French. The rings under his eyes she recognises as the badge of a detective deep in a case. She seizes on this, the one solid thing about him that she can relate to. Perhaps they’re not so different, merely different approaches to personal style.

She welcomes his hand shake and returns it with her own - strong, confident, without being overbearing. She learned early on in the force that trying to be one of the men simply would not work. Instead, she crafted a different role for herself. She happily sits apart from the male officers of CID at the Met, a rigid and unbending ice queen beyond reproach. The cases she presents to CPS are nearly always taken forward to prosecution. Her all but perfect track record curries favour with the higher ups - which is like gold dust in CID. Respect is worth more than friendship.

Uhtred’s question about biscuits reminds her that the respect she enjoyed in London is non-existent here. She needs to rebuild an entire reputation. Still, it triggers an arched brow, the kind that scares off the City boys who try to buy her drinks.

“I’m not in the habit of carting bourbons around.”

She was willing to give DCI Ragnarsson the benefit of the doubt, but the look he gives her shrivels up any good faith she might have had. She knows how she looks in this office. As a teenager, she worked as a model to fund her psychology degree. Now, she spends her money on a central London flat and a wardrobe straight from Selfridges. Her turtleneck jumper is cashmere, charcoal grey, and matches her Prince of Wales check tailored suit. Her heels are patent leather, polished and bearing signature Louboutin red lacquered soles.

So, she doesn’t look like the typical women of the force who scrape back their hair and wear frumpy, cheap shirts and ill-fitting slacks. That doesn’t mean she deserves his derision.

“Nothing I’ve chosen to wear breaches uniform code, as far as I’m aware.”

She could leave it at that. She could keep it entirely professional, her expression bland and her tone bored. But something in the way he looks at her, looks down his nose at her while he sits there in a crumpled off-white tee shirt and combat boots, makes her seethe.

“And I don’t know any hedge fund managers who wear Vivienne Westwood or Calvin Klein. They tend to prefer Hugo Boss.”

His rural animosity is noted, stored away. She slides her hands into her pockets, squaring her narrow shoulders. She expected better from someone who requested a Met officer’s support, but perhaps DCI Ragnarsson assumed he’d be sent a cigarette smoking, whiskey drinking, old timer who engaged in some casual racism over a pint.

“Doesn’t sound so quiet from what I hear. It appears you have a murderer on the loose, DCI Ragnarsson.” Before he can respond, she sucks in a breath and meets his gaze head on, refusing to be cowed. “I reviewed the files that were faxed over on the train ride up. With your authorisation, I’d like to review any other files relevant to the case over the course of today. And I’m curious about the reduced information from forensic collection already performed. Is there anything I need to know before I introduce myself to your team and begin work, sir?”

"Bourbons? We're not that posh, we usually just make do with Hobnobs. Still, might want to pick some up if you have a minute. They're like hungry dogs, these boys. Snap at any stranger unless they've brought treats."

He's thrown by her presence, but the inertia lasts only a moment before any uncertainty is shoved away. No point in getting all riled up about; she's here now and there's no getting rid of her until she storms her own way out--which, in his defence, usually only takes a month or two.

But just as he's made his assessment (detached, by-the-rules, hoity-toity London bird), she pushes further, shows a little fierceness.

"Lucky Hugo," he says, blandly, not one hundred percent sure who Calvin or Vivienne are, or what they have to do with her being totally overdressed for a grimy rural police station where ninety percent of the clothes that pass through its door are shiny, cheap, off the rack suits or army surplus. "Does he sell boots? Because you might be needing some."

He doesn't clarify. He'll get a laugh watching her try to cross a freshly tilled field in those heels if she's not sensible enough to figure it out herself.

His mouth opens to object to the phrase 'on the loose', but before he can she's bulldozing onward. With her shoulders squared and her chin tipped defiantly, eyes bright with determination, Uhtred's a little impressed by her fire.

"Reduced information?" he repeats, incredulously. He may not have known about her coming, but he'd signed off on faxing all their files for this case out a week or so ago. Assumed some suited tosser driving a desk wanted some ammunition to come after his budget. In a fit of malicious compliance, he'd had Sihtric fax over every scrap of paper relating to the investigation. An amount that, up until this moment, he'd considered a generous surplus. "That's everything we have. This isn't London. The coroner is the vet, the scene of crime team is just Tony, who's also the pharmacist, and if you scraped together every man who works in this building, you'd barely have enough for a couple of six-aside teams."

He crosses his arms across his chest, chair tipping onto its two back legs.

"But by all means, Detective Inspector. If you think you can do a better job."

[wemultitudinous]

threemonthsheld​:

“It says quite a lot that I’ve aged more in the few years I’ve been M than I did before taking the job.” Yes, James, he is not-so-subtly blaming that on you.

@wemultitudinous​ & one-liner

“Oh, I don’t know. You still seem rather spry for sixty-four. Or is it sixty-five? Hard to count the grey hairs from here.” His dry and sardonic tone matches the slightly aloof expression sketched across his features. The insubordinate teasing is practically rote, by now; the jab is formed for the sake of it, and carries no real sting. But as ever, there’s something half-hidden in his blue eyes. Behind the idle small-talk, there’s always a double-oh, watching.

“What was it you called this once? ‘A young man’s game’?”