Special Agent | ✓

Ten

(a/n: early update & new cover that i'm testing out!)

TEN

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They drank. Well, Jacques drank her red wine, while Gavin only wished for two fingers of whiskey. At this, Ryonne smiled dangerously.

"I have just the thing."

Gavin worried for a second if he was about to be poisoned. Meanwhile, O'Reilly wished for a glass of mineral water. She didn't want to muddle her mind anymore than it already was muddled, as she'd need to comb through whatever information the tactical team sent her as they examined the crime scene. They'd reach the building soon, would find Kione's still, unblinking body there, discarded.

Swallowing, O'Reilly wondered briefly if she ought to just order Jacques to give her the entire bottle. It made her think of the previous night, when she'd sat in Adina's office and had whiskey, thinking of what kind of things the future would toss at her. Quinn wished bitterly for some of Adina's guidance now, the steady presence she supplied O'Reilly with.

Call her tonight. Just to brief her. She'd like that.

So would Quinn, if she allowed herself to be honest with herself. Sipping at her mineral water, Quinn eyed Jacques. The woman in question was attempting to engage Locke in conversation, while the man in question looked close to scowling. Quinn decided a sleep-deprived, grumpy hothead was probably much, much worse when angered than the usual Gavin, so she put her glass on the table and drew Jacques' attention.

"I texted you earlier because I thought we might need some info — turns out we need more than I though." Quinn twirled her glass, then realized her nervous tendencies and withdrew her hand. It didn't take long before she was twisting her simple ring around one finger, though.

"What kind?" Ryonne asked, sipping elegantly at her red wine, "Not like last time, I suppose."

"No, no. It's — it's worse." Something in Quinn's tone hinted to a heavy emotional toll. Ryonne's eyes softened as she watched the young woman compose herself, bravely staying in control. Ryonne barely scratched 35, though she held a certain motherly regard for the lost, confused woman who'd ended up on their doorstep at 17.

"Tell me. If I can help, I will." Ryonne reached for a drawer in the bar, withdrew a prettily wrapped box of parisian chocolates, "Here — have some."

Jacques watched like a hawk as Quinn reached for one, tossing it in her mouth. It melted at once, a praline with bitter, dark chocolate perfectly matched with salty, sweet caramel. Jacques disliked the gaunt, tired look to Quinn's face, and so she pushed the box closer to the analyst.

Locke leaned back, sipped his whiskey. He was content to watch the proceedings, learning more and more of the analyst which he usually damned to bloody hell and back. Usually, he'd called a stickler for rules, a coward behind a desk. Today, she was a far cry from the withdrawn, data-collecting analyst he'd annoyed himself over.

No, this is an entirely different O'Reilly.

Gavin wasn't sure to make of it.

"We — well," Quinn trailed off, uncertainty tinging her expression. Locke, in the various briefings he'd attended with O'Reilly, had ways of reading her. Gavin spied the way her analyst's logical side attempted to figure out how much to tell Jacques, mind whirring behind furrowed brows.

Her eyes shifted, meeting Gavin's. He tilted his head, watched her weigh the situation, then she gave him a small nod. He took the lead.

"Today, we encountered one of our agents dead, here in Paris. It happened in the same spot where another agent issued an emergency beacon late yesterday night." Gavin supplied, the calculating look morphing into a confident one on O'Reilly's face. She took his lead, following up: