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So, Braginsky had failed. After Mihai had so graciously laid out all the clues for him, the Russian had still managed to let her escape, ruining the one good chance he had to kill her and Mihai's to let someone else take care of the dirty work. He had some mixed thoughts about the situation: on one hand, that entailed he had to come up with yet another way to get rid of Aoife Saoirse O'Neill, on the other, it meant he had something to hold over the head of Ivan Braginsky, even if the purpose it served would only be a matter of gloating.

Mihai had found out about it all the day after, about the agent turning up in the hospital, a bit worse for wear but still alive. He had yet to figure out how she had arrived there (naturally, precautions were necessary to ensure he hadn't some unseen enemy), but the news had yet to come. The only thing that mattered was that, for all his faults, Braginsky didn't seem to have allowed himself to blab before throwing Aoife to the river, thus guaranteeing that Mihai's cover was still safe. With the presence of the unknown helper however, he could still not be certain, and he was quite glad for the fact that his job would allow him to carry a gun into her apartment without appearing suspicious. Just in case.

The entire scheme was nothing personal towards Aoife, really. If anything, he rather preferred the fiery agent to the domineering Bratva boss, but—well—duty called. Or, in this case, Paris had, enraged that she had managed to make a fool out of them (as if they needed help doing that, hah). He was more than disinclined to secure their revenge for them—hell, if it were a group anything other than FOL he would have gladly rewarded Aoife with a medal for obliterating the incompetent infants that lay over the Channel—but then, an opportunity had so invitingly presented itself.

In the immediate aftermath of the event, he'd done as any good bureaucrat would have, railing on the MI6 for overstepping its boundaries so very blatantly. Terrorist activity was, after all, under the jurisdiction of the CI, and after all the red tape and paperwork and bad press were all over, MI6 had been more than willing to grant him whatever simple request he wanted in order to get him to shut up. No one said that bureaucracy didn't come with any benefits. He'd demanded to see the "Erin" in question, who had spearheaded the whole operation, though the interrogation with her had served no legitimate purpose; rather, it was for him to figure out how much information she'd unearthed from the bumbling idiots in Paris.

Indeed, it was an unexpected twist that they got along quite well—or at least she with his persona of the politician—but he'd always considered himself an opportunist, and the chance had offered itself so willingly. So, as fate would have it, they ended up dating, with Mihai playing the role of the caring boyfriend. Which would be the reason he was paying his sweetheart a visit, handful of flowers replaced with some groceries, which he imagined she might appreciate more than a bouquet of baby's breath or whatever.

His knock on the door was quickly answered, not by an invitation to enter but with muffled barking. He rolled his eyes and grimaced at the sound. He had little against animals, but Aoife's pet had always been aggressive towards him, and after the dog managed to draw blood once, he'd stopped trying to make peace. He just let Aoife deal with him, which she did by stepping in front of the dog before opening the door and greeting him with an excited hug.

Mihai responded to her laughter with a light chuckle of his own, not quite genuine but not really fake either. "Oh—careful, love," he warned, wrapping his free arm around her waist. "My hands are a bit full at the moment." His tone held all the artificially sweet fondness in the world, as easy for him to dredge up as it was to breathe air. He allowed her to have her moment, turning his head and nuzzling into her hair, inhaling the spices of her shampoo. He rather did like her hair; it was soft and fanned out around her like a halo, and when the light hit it right, it looked like a sunset—not the type that caressed the horizon like satin, no, the type that looked like it had reversed the center of the earth with the heavens, that looked like it was setting the sky to flames. And if only she would be willing to as well.

"I begged to be let off of work early today," he answered into her neck, twirling a little strand of fire between his fingers. "After all, my girlfriend was finally released from the hospital, and I surely couldn't leave her at home all by her lonesome." Then, he pulled back, a bit of teasing in his grin. "Of course, that was just an excuse so that I could get off work earlier." Taking in the jacket in her hand that had partially been pulled over his shoulder and around his neck, and the leash connected to the dog's collar, his expression turned inquisitive as he added, "Did I come at a bad time?"

It was a burdensome game to keep pretenses, and at Nico's wink, he let it drop. He rolled his eyes with an amused scoff before settling back down onto the couch again. However many times they did this dance—and as sultry a dance it may seem to the stranger eye—it never carried with it anything more promising than a night spent over alcohol and whatever gossip that cared to cross mind and mouth. They'd tried, once, to indulge lust and curiousity, and found it not-unfulfilling but not quite ideal; they were either too incompatible or too compatible, but their relationship had since simmered down into whatever this was. He didn't know if 'friendship' cut it, or 'sister he never had,' but he was not in the business of trying to categorize relationships. They were too complex anyway, given his situation and the multitude of lies he inhabited—a lover under one circumstance might be an enemy under another. It sufficed him to know that Nico was a fixed point—no pretense, no need to shift allegiance. He'd be the last to admit that the tangle of untruths were utterly draining in their own way, but there was something like a calm in shedding masks in someone else's company. And that was a privilege that neither of them experienced often.

"Yes, of course," he said mildly, sipping from his glass. He didn't know if she was joking about having other requests; they did, to some degree, run their cons in conjunction after all, and it wasn't rare that they requested favors from the other. He did, however, stiffen at her instruction. It wasn't that he was shy about nudity—it would be patently ridiculous coming from someone with as many sexual exploits as he. His hesitance stemmed from how he just knew she was going to delight in this, was already delighting in it. He would not be half as forlorn if it weren't for her amusement.

And at the mention of lace, he could not but bury his head in a hand with a groan. "Oh, you're really not making this easy for me, are you?" He had nothing, on principle, against lace, and it would be false to say he'd never indulged in it before. But it had been years since he'd left college, and even longer since he'd had a relationship genuine enough to venture anywhere close to that degree of intimacy. He wasn't going to whine about it now though. If Nico wanted to play this out the hard way, well then, fine.

"Very well then, do your worst," he said, draining his glass and setting it back on the table before standing up. He tugged his shirt off, not bothering with any act of shyness nor flirtatiousness. It would be pointless anyway; though neither of them were reserved in finding the other attractive, nothing would come of it than more quip and delay. Much better to get it over with quickly. Once his shirt had been pulled over his head and his vision restored, his eyes fixed on Nico. "I do hope you plan on returning the show though," he said with a smirk as his fingers went down to work at his fly.

He could give as good as he got.

i see you guys talking unu

ludwig and elizabeta are you trying to kill me

The offices of corporate science giant Maximantics towered over the London skyline at seventy, maybe eighty floors. It was fancy—plated in mirrored glass so that the same full-floor windows of the building across the street from it would be reflected, endlessly. An infinite replication—a practice in narcissism. Befitting of one of the richest districts in London, its streets lined with corporate headquarters, all of them with their ceiling-to-floor windows, with millions of dollars in cash and stocks and bonds to spare that went towards vacation houses and fast cars and secret bank vaults. He'd grown used to seeing these quarters, often conducted business there, an achievement unimaginable when he was a child. Even more unimaginable was that he felt nothing towards the cold steel constructions—neither awe nor rancor, just indifference. He wondered if he should be alarmed by the nonchalance with which he passed through the automated doors of the Maximantics headquarters, whether he was missing out on some childhood catharsis or whether he was forsaking the righteous cause of FOL in the careless way his eyes passed over the expensive decor of the lobby, barely seeing them at all.

He made directly for reception, greeting the woman behind the desk with a smile and a tilt of his head. "Excuse me, miss," he said, leaning over the counter with his elbows resting lightly on its surface. "I'm looking for a Mr. Lukas Bondevik. He should be expecting me."

Her eyes flickered up to his face. She had a pretty set of eyes, he noticed, nearly black to match her hair. Perhaps she wouldn't mind if he stopped by for a chat once he'd finished his business with Bondevik. After a brief moment of trying to place his features—during which he dedicated her another smile—she turned towards her computer screen. "And you are?"

"Michael Collins, from the Home Office."

She quickly turned to him again, eyes wide as recognition suddenly dawned. "Oh—oh, yes, of course," she said, nodding. "Just give me a moment." She went back to typing on the computer, and he dearly hoped the expression on her face was awe. He had gotten such favorable responses from people in awe before.

"Sure. No problem." Normally, he would have preferred to go under the radar, but this time there was no reason for him to conceal his identity—that is, his identity as a government official. There would be no way that he could keep this visit secret from scrutiny, especially since he'd gone through official channels to secure it, and the tabloids would be onto it soon enough. The same publicity, however, need not apply to any subsequent meetings he would (hopefully) be able to arrange with Mr. Lukas Bondevik. By the end of this visit, he fully intended on having Bondevik's cooperation and secrecy, because while he had used his department to obtain this appointment (he needed the connections and the legitimacy), his motives didn't lay in the upright representation of the government. His true intentions were towards his stronger loyalties, and namely, the fashioning of an explosive that could be easily smuggled. Hence his need for a chemist at the top of his field, and Bondevik fit the role well, even if he was a little too well-known for Mihai's liking. Still, the Maximantics scientist had turned up as the best option after he'd carefully considered them all, and he would stick to it.

It wasn't too long before the receptionist spoke again. "Mr. Bondevik will see you now, Mr. Collins," she said. She'd recomposed herself well, but he didn't miss the slightly breathless tone of voice. He thanked her as she handed him a key card and gave him the instructions to the 65th floor.

"Maybe we can get a coffee later, if you're done with your shift," he said in parting. The last look he caught on her was one of surprise, which was usually most people's first reactions. It wasn't every day someone who worked for the government extended an invitation to coffee.

But thoughts of the casual flirtation quickly vanished as he passed through door, security checkpoint, then stood in the elevator as the numbers flickered upwards. He wondered what sort of man Lukas Bondevik was. Most journalists found him icy to talk to, and Mihai would say that he certainly looked the type, but he couldn't say from personal experience. If the interviews and news were anything to go by, then it might make his case a hard sell, and he had nothing more to rely on than his words. He could not have any development of unauthorized explosives linked to his department, and of course, he would not be telling Bondevik his true use for them. He was going to have to play it by ear, and a small grin curled at his lips at the thought. Lying to people was one of his talents, after all, and he wanted to see if he could play Bondevik the way he wanted to.

Finally, the elevator glided smoothly to a halt—another indication of status—and Mihai stepped out into the hallway. This entire floor was silent, the hallway, empty. The receptionist had told him that Bondevik had the entire 65th to himself, which was odd, to say the least, but could be attributed to either intellect or a commentary to Bondevik's degree of social interactions. He did indeed seem to have the reclusive tendencies attributed to him by the journalists, but the vacant level, occupied by only a single door, seemed lonely. Mihai shrugged. All the better for him to say what he needed to say, he supposed. No witnesses, no interruptions, no questions.

He raised a hand to the door and knocked.

Their contrast couldn't be more different to the casual onlooker. From her relaxed lounge to his cross-legged poise, her casual words to his calculated phrases, even their hair—hers, dark and brown, his, nearly light enough to be called blond. Yet, there were always little things that would easily escape the stranger eye—how behind them lay the same homeland, the same love for alcohol and life on the edge, the same wreckage of childhood that lead to their diverging paths. Her, a thief, scorned, detested and him, a person of power to be admired and trusted. The points from which they stood on top of the world were as separate as chasm to mountain, but their natures were undeniably the same, and the cliff from where he stood with everything he could have ever wanted spread out under him was already beginning to crumble. Yet, neither of them were the sort to notice the foundation that fell away beneath their feet, otherwise, there was no other way they could maintain their play of lighthearted banter—but such was their only repose, bliss in ignorance, or rather self-delusion.

"Not yet?" he echoed in amusement, unknowing of the prophetic significance of her words. "Not ever, if I can help it." Arrogance rang in the words and coated the smile that tugged at his lips. He was fully assured of his own abilities to masterfully execute a crime, and to hide even his involvement and identity in the devastation of the aftermath. After he had accomplished his mission, Michael Collins would be well and dead and mourned, and there was something to be said about the spark of elation felt for being the victim of your own crime. It took a certain degree of genius to carry out a crime of this scale, after all, but it was something else to commit a crime and be grieved afterwards (as a goddamn martyr), and no one would be all the wiser.

There was, however, decidedly less he could say about her puzzlement to the kitchen's location. "You've treated yourself often enough to the stuff in my fridge that you should have a very good idea where it is," he bit back, grumbling, but there was little he could do when she made it clear what would be in his own best interest. Perhaps he would have argued that he didn't need her mercy in this, but it was painfully obvious that he did and it seemed a trip to the kitchen would be a small price to pay if she would go easy on him (though he wasn't certain how much she would let up with a bit of alcohol). To drive her point further home—as though it were necessary and he hadn't been tingling with nerves since she'd hung up the phone—she kicked her suitcase open and Mihai could spare its contents only a glance before averting his eyes, disgruntled. As he rose to retrieve her drink, it was clear that she'd won the battle, but he deigned himself mature enough to make a reproachful face at her before doing as she bid.

He brought his own glass with him, refilling the half-drained liquid and pouring Nico's before returning to the living room with both flutes in his hands. He sipped from his own as he proffered her the other glass, arching an eyebrow at the other from his higher vantage point. He licked his lips, catching the last tastes of wine before speaking, his mouth curved into a sarcastic smile. "Is there anything else the lady has wish for?"