Participants:
| Scene Title | Roughage |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Teo tries to engage Ethan in important discussion of the fact their house is under watch by a psychopathic ex-terrorist illusionist and what to do about this and other pieces of valuable intel. Ethan would rather poop on everything. Literally, physically, and figuratively. |
| Date | December 9, 2009 |
Ryazan, Russia — Spektor Home
"Fucking strewth."
Perhaps this comment is directed at the situation the team finds itself in. Only slightly closer to their goal than when they started. Maybe it's directed to the carnage that transpired at the clinic, Kozlow barely escaping with life intact. Maybe it's directed to the collection of souls that Ethan despises waiting right outside this door. Maybe it's directed at Felix declaring that Ethan is not his type. And perhaps maybe it is directed at the book held open by Ethan. The Count of Monte Cristo. Someone told him a long time ago it was a book before it was a movie. Whatever.
But the Wolf's comment is most likely directed to the situation he currently finds himself in. Pants pulled down around his ankles, Ethan studies the book with his rear situated on the porcelain throne. He has been here for a little while, and if the lighter propped open with the flame still burning is any indication, he will be here for a bit more. The man continues to read in silence.
Mental static. A blip of registration, optimistic ping. Easily, at first, mistaken for the last adrenalized burst of effort from Ethan's sphincter or the following fatigue, but— and I can't even believe I typed that;;— Holden's been on the field, among Evolved long enough to tell when something or someone has insinuated itself coyly in the pink lobes of his brain; the spectral, psychic equivalent of a knocking fist.
Who's there?
Hello? Teo's presence is thin as a whisper. He jiggles cables, swaps sockets, dials between frequencies, frowns at the distorted image and bangs a fist on the mike. Hacking computers requires what can be construed as God-like patience, but it's nothing compared to the erratic unpredictability and strain of domesticizing somebody else's Evolved ability. Anyhow. He doesn't yet realize that Ethan's still on the can. Hello—? Ciao? Ethan?
Go away.
He's had enough telepathic conversation to understand how it works. And unfortunately there isn't anything he can do to actually make Teo go away. Maybe he can think hard enough to make Teo really depressed and perhaps he would go away on his own volition. So Ethan ponders the thought of all penii across the worlds surface slowly withering and crumbling into ash. But after a moment of headglancing back, it seems sad to him too. A page is earmarked as Ethan folds up his book and drops it to the ground. The lighter is flicked shut as he goes to… finish, and flush.
You're annoying even when you don't exist. What the fuck do you want? Idly he ponders his accent in his head. Could he make himself sound Jamaican in a telepathic conversation? It's a topic which sould be given some thought at the Shandra Research Center, definitely, but not a topic Ethan can linger on as he pushes down to flush.
What?
Coincidentally, Teo's 'telepathy,' as it were, doesn't work exactly like most other telepaths' do, probably because he isn't— technically— a telepath. When Ethan has at elbowing him aside, he very nearly succeeds, squashing the phantom Sicilian into one cramped corner of his skull. He twists and clumps into the uneven spaces that remain like an irritable cat. Stop! Stop that, he complains, but apparently immune to graphic imagery of crumbling penises. I ex-ex-exist. I exist.
Hamlet would be proud. Perhaps somewhat less so of the fact Teodoro balks like a skittish little colt at the spectacle that's swirling down the porcelain bowl. Oh, that's fuckin' gross. I want— I want to talk to you where I don't think Zhukovsky can hear. That's who you meant, right? I deciphered your note, I think. From… from the other night. In which they'd exchanged far more than notes but, after a beat, he forges on.
You need to eat more vegetables.
Atkins/
The swift dietary reply is all Ethan will give to Theodore's last comment as Ethan goes to wash his hands. Maybe because Teo is watching and he wants people to think he has good hygeine, he scrubs extra. You sound like Pinnochio. Trying to convince yourself you're a real boy. Turning off the faucet he goes to reclaim his book, eyeing the cover it for a long moment so Teo can see that he reads. Intelligent books, even. I didn't leave you a note. And if you think you deciphered it you're probably wrong. So go wank to the image of my shit, you asshole. Opening the door, the Wolf goes to step out of the bathroom. Are you even in the house?
Ethan looks around as if trying to find the man. Because it is for sure if he does find Teo's body he's definitely going to defile him in some way. Perhaps a wet willie or something equally humiliating for a grown man.
Teodoro isn't going to answer that question. I'm not going to tell you, he answers irritably, sliding around in the bowl of Ethan's mind like a bit of water logged in his ear. It isn't fun for the water, either. Nobody wants to be in Ethan's ear. Even if he does read halfway intelligent books. The Sicilian is only belatedly reminded he doesn't have hands to flip the tome over with, or he would have physically manifested curiosity in a glance over a few pages. Do you want me to tell the others?
Do you not want me to tell the others? Why hasn't he stormed the house? Do you think he'd know what to make of codename Nifleheim? Teodoro couldn't possibly be more annoying if he were a four-year-old in the backseat, deliberately ignoring his latest challenger at the Quiet Game.
Storming down the hallway, Ethan starts his angry stalking at Teo's room. I am going to make your nipples bleed if I find you He mentally grumbles. Stomping through the house, the Wolf is sure to cause a rampage and turn up every gay porn magazine in the house until he finds Theodore. If I left you anything. And if you had to work on deciphering it. Well of course I want you to share it with everyone! That's the most obvious thing ever! Somehow Ethan's head sounds sarcastic.
You're the only one in this fucking place, besides half of Frenchie that won't fuck up a mile given a foot of fucking distance. Well. Maybe that's a bad metaphor for you. But still. Keep your ass shut and your mouth even more shut. I will let you know find out. And you do your best not to gossip with your bosom buddies, got it? Teo's room is thrown open, eyebrows set to angrymode.
The part of Teo unavailable for response happens to be lying right there, in his bed, a lumpy wad of slack muscle and sleepers' hand curled below his cheek, blankets mounded on his torso and wrapped densely around his huddled shoulders. He appears entirely asleep. Don't— hey!
Hands off, signor. Don't you do anything to me! If I don't wake up— and I won't wake up, if Zhukovsky's watching, he'll know something's up and you'll douche this whole thing over. He bounces agitatedly around the coils of Ethan's brain, presses spectral nose to the pane when the image in Ethan's right eye threatens to short out, and the feeling in the Englishman's left hand departs from his perceptory field.
The furthest thing from a seamless blending of bodies. There's opportunity for misinformation and avenues to pursue, you know. Depends on whether we plan to directly engage in the end, or watch and wait for him to do our work for him. He'll probably trust you more if you bring him a copy of the Apollo debriefing, D-day on the 22nd and the transport course.
Or— or, we should be preparing to close in. I have a phone number for him. If you have another, we could get a rough physical location that way, try and jostle Dreyfus into retreat, too, and see where he goes. We can't do nothing.
Because he doesn't think I'm a general mal-contempt? No. Theodore. He won't expect a thing. I'll be careful. With that, Ethan turns, leaving the sleeping Teo in the room. Ethan heads back for the bathroom. Going into the bathroom he starts moving through peoples toiletries. I will meet with him, see what he wants a little more. And maybe I'll just work with him. He can make himself look like anyone. Including Cameron Diaz. Ethan grabs a bottle of shaving cream. There.
Heading back into the hall, he smirks lightly. We'll do something little Theodore. Don't worry. With that, Ethan turns to face Teo's open room, holding the bottle of shaving cream ominously.
D: …
You are such a dick, Teodoro exclaims, spinning and dropping unhappily through the ether, a totem guppy knocking his gapsing face bombastically into the glass. According to his interpretation of the situation, Ethan is failing to treat the situation to the proper recognition. Your contact had Francois turned to fucking stone, nearly shot everybody to shit with frigid contagion bitch and her little troupe of psychopaths there.
And even if you ignore those five souls balancing on the scale, Grigori's probably sitting on information that could save billions of lives. What does he want you for? And stop tou— don't touch me. The wavering squeak in Ethan's mind's ear manages to rise a volume level or two for lapsing back on inherent weakness.
Shakeshakeshake.
I didn't tell you to contact my contact. Ethan headsays a little snappish. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. Going to lock the door he takes a few steps forward, bringing his fist up to clear his throat. This conversation is over. You should get out of my head. You have three seconds before you get a mouthful.
Walking forward, the Wolf stands over Teo's bed, slowly going to one knee at the man's side, ignoring the brainsqueaking. A light grin forms on his lips.
There's a protracted silence. One can almost picture the ghostly contours of Teo's generous mouth compressed into frog-like exasperation, hands akimbo, expressive brow buckled under the weight of his temper. I can't wait to move everybody out of this place. No offense to Katarina. Fine— fine: put your hand on me. Cazzo.
Just one hand is enough— Ghost's ability worked better with proximity. Don't smother me or any kind of shit, okay?
I wasn't trying to be difficult. I just wanted... There's a haggard lull of silence; the sort that generally implies hesitation. With Teo, it would be all too easy to imagine he's considering demanding oaths of some sort; that Ethan will prioritize the lives of their teammates, what's worth preserving in teh wider world, that decency, virtue, and Eileen little neck in the General's guillotine will not be forgotten in the processes of spy games, tactical intrigues, the rekindling of old alliances.
Abandoned inside fair skin and green sheets, his body looks like it's sleeping, though it's closer to dead.
Instead, Teo finishes: Be careful.
I'll protect what's mine.
That's all Ethan will answer as he leans in. But instead of filling Teo's hands with shaving cream or pouring it into his mouth and nostrils, the Wolf shifts the can, facing the other way now. Nozzle down, leaning over Teo, Ethan pulls it up before…
Swinging it down hard at Teo's groin, going for a hell of a nut shot before spraying shaving cream all over that same area and then running for the door. Guess what it will look like when Teo wakes up and starts holding his balls? The door is unlocked as the Wolf walks hastily down the hall back to his room.