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Indie Raymond "Red" Reddington from NBC's Blacklist. Private. Selective. Mun/Muse 21+. Dark Themes present. Please read rules/bio before following/interacting. Written by Erick

agenttrevor:

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    “–Thanks.” It’s genuine enough, and Victor lights his cigarette before he returns to his position leant against the wall. He’s still on edge– not all too obviously, not now that he’s got company, but there’s still a measure of tension in the way he moves. The way he stands, too, one arm folded across his middle, speaks of something along the lines of discomfort. It could just be the bite of the cold, but the look of cautious scrutiny he gives the other man suggests otherwise. It’s enough to infer, to someone looking for it, that he doesn’t quite trust the situation. “One day, I’ll stop scrounging lighters from car parks and actually buy myself a nice one.” A little levity enters his tone then, a bright overlay on something that’s otherwise careful, and he takes a drag before he continues. “And promptly lose it, no doubt.”

    And then there’s the matter of the question. If Victor had been truly working rather than simply having a bad day, he would have had an answer all lined up. As it is, he came into this with no plans to end up where he currently is, and it’s a little less straight-forward. Even so– he’s a wonderful liar when he needs to be. “A touch, yeah. I certainly didn’t intend to end up here.” He sighs, gaze slipping from the other man to their surroundings. “I’m beginning to think that wine plays merry hell with my sense of direction. Bit of excitement sure does sober you up fast, though.” It’s scattered with careful half-truths, too– Victor doubts he’d be able to convince anyone that this situation is entirely fine, after all, so he’ll use it instead. Plus, he’s pretty sure he’s got a couple of nasty bruises that’ll be blooming by the morning.

Of course he wasn’t comfortable in the middle of a broken-down, half-dead part of the city in the middle of the night with a strange man in a suit ill-fitting the area and an expensive lighter. The latch on the holster stays undone, but Red brings his hand around to the front of his body, pulling out a cigar from his pocket to join the man in a smoke. Whatever he could do to make the intruder feel comfortable before he decided to do something about him. “Make sure your first one isn’t too nice, or you’ll just lose it a week later on the train and be out fifty bucks.” He still missed that lighter. Someone in Mumbai must have enjoyed that impromptu little present. A thick plume of musky smoke joins the cigarette’s in the air. “Do yourself a favor and start out with regular ones, I promise you they’ll be worth it one day." 

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Red chuckles, "No one really intends to end up here, especially not at this hour.” Drunk and sobering up, that explained a bit, honestly, but could he really believe that this man simply got drunk and wandered here? That there was no ulterior motive for his presence outside an industrial building he frequently used for interrogation? At least Brimley’d gone home for the day, that bag of wind would be a lot to explain, a lot more than himself and the interrogatee. “If you need to be pointed in the right direction, the freeway’s that way, and the closest subway station’s two blocks past that street lamp.” There was a certain stiffness Red saw in the young man, “Are you sure you’re all right? You look…stiff. Were you mugged? I’m sure I’ve got some ointment and bandages in my first aid kit.” Whatever he could do, perhaps he could get the younger man to follow him, be tended to. Then he’d have an upper hand, and Red would be much more able to see what it was–exactly–this young man wanted.

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