Special Agent | ✓

Seven

Rookie.

Swerving into another lane, Locke glanced at the GPS. The analyst hadn't offered any direction as to where they were going, simply pushing in the address in the GPS before leaning back to stare out of the window. She'd shoved her sweater back on, shoulders tense beneath the fabric.

As they rolled over a bridge arching past Themsen, Gavin glanced once more at the Battersea address. Outside the windows, views of Battersea Park breezed past. As spring was inching its way into the calendars, some of the trees had started sprouting bright green buds. The analyst appeared to be studying those as Gavin turned, obediently following the directions of the GPS.

In the background, the radio crooned softly. A lilting, heavily English accent announced the next hit they were about to play. Jess Glynne's rich voice filled the car. As Gavin slowed by a stop-light, he drummed the wheel. Locke was used to being right, but in this case he despised it. The analyst had turned out to be exactly the type of the person he'd encountered during the briefings: stiff, unsocial, a paper-pushing coward.

Yet a part of him compared that image to the remarkable scene of O'Reilly shouting during the emergency meeting. It didn't add up. A scowl appeared on his face as he realized he'd never had the time to ask Davidson what the bloody hell Havas had said to make the mousy analyst go off in such a way.

It was the bloody Chief of Intelligence's fault.

Chief Adina Tibble had marched over, breaking off his conversation with Davidson to pull him aside and caution Locke to stay out of the analyst's lane. As if he were the one to potentially weigh down the mission. If anything, it was fucking O'Reilly who ought to stay away from him.

Bloody analysts.

Rolling into an underground garage, Gavin occupied into the first available parkins pace. O'Reilly had unfurled herself from the passenger suit within seconds, practically before the bloody car had even stopped. Gavin scowled further, switching off the ignition. As he slammed his car door shut behind him, O'Reilly quickly glanced over her shoulder. The woman had bloody well nearly crossed the entire parking lot.

"You don't have to come," called O'Reilly. Gavin arched a brow, expression sour.

"And have you vault out of your windows, fleeing the mission?" His tone was dark, washing over her menacingly, " — I don't think so."

O'Reilly rubbed a hand over her face, disturbing her glasses. Annoyed, she righted them.

Can't believe this four-eyed analyst is going with me to Paris.

The analyst didn't deign respond, but chose to push open the doors to the stairs. She brushed right past the elevator, muttering 'It's broken' before trudging up the stairs. Her shoulders were still tense, and she climbed quickly. Gavin had no issues following — he'd be a bloody terrible field agent if a few flights of stairs winded him. Instead, he trailed behind her with the ever-present scowl plastered across his face.

She slowed as they reached one of the landings, hands dipping into the pocket of her jeans as she shot straight toward what Gavin assumed was her apartment. She juggled the tangle of keys for a second, finally grasping one of them. Unlocking the door, O'Reilly shouldered it open before striding inside. She didn't bother waiting for Locke, who bitterly trudged after the analyst.

Closing the door behind him, Locke chose to lean against the wall right next to the door. O'Reilly hadn't even bothered to glance over her shoulder, instead disappearing through one of the archways. Locke scowled, then followed.

The analyst's apartment was small. The top of the archway was low enough that Gavin had to duck, muttering a curse as he narrowly avoided bumping his head into the wooden frame. It seemed he'd stepped right into her bedroom, as the woman herself was only halfway visible, bent by a closet. There was an unzipped duffel on the bed, quickly filling with clothes.

Her bedframe was dark oak, the sheets a slate grey. The walls were minimally painted with a dark blue color, broken up by the occasional abstract artwork. Gavin's eye scoured her nightstand. The analyst owned only one, of the same dark oak as the bedframe, yet it looked close to toppling over as an impressive stack of books balanced precariously atop it.

Locke read a handful of the titles: The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs, Mindhunter, A Bear's Life, The Introvert Advantage. His eyebrows raised at the last one, the scowl lifting ever so slightly.

At least she's aware of it.

His eyes traced the back of the analyst, who was still half-buried in her closet. Before he could stop himself, the question rose to his lips:

"You read?"

O'Reilly stilled, throwing him a glance over her shoulder.

"Occasionally."

"You read all this? On the nightstand?"

"Someday, I will." Annoyance crept into her voice, and Gavin scowled at the sparse response. Instead of attempting further talk, Gavin headed over to the room right next to the bedroom. It had been converted into a home office, cluttered with various monitors and piles of documents.

Locke rifled through some of the piles, reading the titles. Mission reports, most of them from Kent's missions. Gavin moved to the monitors, found them locked. He wasn't above snooping — it was a part of the job.

"I went through her latest mission reports after the alert went through." The analyst's voice reached from the doorway of her office. Gavin stilled, tilting his ever so slightly her way. It was a bloody cramped room, at least for someone of his height.

O'Reilly entered the space, and it shrunk further. She moved aside a few documents, revealing the smooth metal lid of a laptop. Grasping its edges, she lifted it off the desk and hauled it into the bedroom. As she'd moved the documents, Gavin noted a flash of handwriting in bold red. As Quinn had left the room, he flipped the document.

Faulty intel. Leak. Previous enemies. BAD JOB.

The writing was choppy, the letters little more than angry, red slashes. BAD JOB had been circled at least thrice, then underlined. Locke turned the document the other way, placing it back on the table. His eyes flickered to the doorway, watching the shadow of the analyst move around.

He didn't needle her about it. Instead, Locke turned off the office light and exited the room. His dark eyes seared into her face, noting the duffle thrown over her shoulder.

"Let's go," said Gavin, brushing past her and out of the apartment.

It was time to go to Paris. 

――――――

a/n: the wednesday update, as promised. a bit shorter, but it's because of how i wrote the continuation of the story — felt weird to let it be any longer. sorry 'bout it. oh well, the action i have lined up should hopefully make up for it :)

questions of the chapter: 

1. think little quinnie is beating herself up over kent's disappearance? :/

2. will quinn read her nightstand books

3. who'd win between kimmel & tibble?

4. who'd win between locke & o'reilly?

see you friday :)