Where on Earth, Spies Ch. 25

"Mine magama, noor kutsikas. Sul on hunt aega." Flo sat patiently on the couch, petting the hair of the mutt on her lap. Not Mischief, he was on the floor chewing a tough piece of bread. The mutt was Mayhem, sleeping soundly sprawled across the couch. He seemed to find Flo the most comfortable spot in the house, whether she was sitting on the couch or cooking or what. He hadn't expressed any romantic interest, he was just surprisingly clingy. She wondered at times if he was like that with Carmen, but he seemed to be afraid of her, from what she had seen.

Mayhem tended to be quiet when Carmen was talking (and she called every day), he spoke respectfully to her (and nobody else, it seemed), he quietly adhered to his lessons (even though he expressed a dislike for them, which Flo dutifully but patiently scolded him for), and every day he would take a few hours to go out and check her mail box, always returning empty-handed, but not arguing the point. He would often return only to sleep for a few hours on Flo (as he presently was) and after that, she would get up to make dinner, and he would watch her or help. He was snarky, but only in a friendly way. It was especially funny when she was making pasta. Mayhem kept stealing dried noodles to munch on. She didn't get that silly little habit, but she'd often turn around to see Mayhem munching on an uncooked noodle, sticking out of his mouth like a farm boy with a bit of wheat. He'd smile mischeviously, and she'd wonder how he got it without her seeing. It was something left of his personality, it seemed. Something that the harsh Russian cold seasons and the repetitive lessons hadn't driven out of him. Flo honestly hoped that quality never left him. She remembered being like him.

Flo had once long ago been a very cheery person. She'd learned English, perfected the accent, put on a smile, and went into advertising with the best of them. She smiled and laughed and was remembered fondly by many. Sometimes a little less fondly by others, but she was always remembered. She made the silly outdated hairstyle and delightful perkiness of attitude look good. Back then she had been so fond of America. Sometimes she wondered what had changed. She vaguely remembered having good friends there. Inside and outside of the Spy circles. She remembered having very good friends indeed. And sometimes more than friends. She tried to think back to what had changed, but she couldn't quite bring the event to mind. She remembered only vaguely her time in America, but what she remembered was bittersweet. Something about the memories hurt like the butt of a gun. And boy was that feeling familiar. Rifle, specifically.

She looked with pity at Mayhem while he was sleeping soundly. She knew at some point things might change for him. He already had changed. No more flouting the rules, no more mindless flirtations, no jokingly insulting one's superiors, and no sympathy for the team he had pushed aside. That must have been such a hard change for him. She stroked his hair like she'd pet a puppy, and let her hand trail down past the hair to touch his ever-present 5 'O clock shadow. She wasn't even sure if he shaved, which was kind of amusing, really. He always had some kind of a bandage, too. How accident prone. At least, she hoped it was an accident. From there she petted the fur lining of a coat he'd gotten to deal with the harsh winters.

"Wake up, pup, it's time to make dinner." She purred, petting his hair again. She wanted to wake him to why he was changing, too. But that would go against her mission. She wasn't allowed to go against the mission.

~~~~~

Waldo sat quietly at a bar in Russia, staring into his drink. He wasn't drinking heavily. He told the others he wasn't a drunk, and he meant it. He was a smoker, though. And the lack of cigarettes was killing him. It took every ounce of patience not to snap every time he tried to speak Russian. It was his third language, specially chosen to combat Carmen. But as a third language, it wasn't perfect, and required more thought than he wanted to give it at that moment. He could only think of how much he needed a smoke. A smoke, and a light on his lighter. Maybe a fiery drink. Something red and spicy, with a bit of sweetness. No. No, what he needed was Nicotine. And quickly. But no. He'd given away the pack he'd had on him to Mayhem, and he still had cigarette burns on the back of his wrist. They still hurt. Maybe something to eat would stop his lingering trail of thought, but he could only think of something spicy. His thoughts moved to drinks again.

"Afterburner number two." He ordered, and repeated it in Russian in case the message didn't get through.

Two shots. One Vodka, one Tabasco. Some things never change. He took the shot of Vodka and the shot of Tobasco, and paid no mind to the impending inebriation. He'd already been drinking, after all. He rolled up his sleeve a bit and touched the burn marks he'd made. They still hurt. He tried to disguise them with a watch, but even padding the back of it hurt. He still wore it on the job, though. People didn't need to know the measures he was taking to quit, just like they didn't need to know how much he drank when he didn't have a job to do in the day.

He was not a drinker. He didn't depend on drinks, he drank socially and only when he didn't have anything important he needed to do (barring the times when the socializing and the 'important things' coincided, which was how the James Bond Martini came around, though before Waldo's time). He was not an alcoholic. He didn't drink to drown out old things, or remember new ones. Although, for the record, he had hidden valuable information by learning it while drunk. It was an old spy's trick: Get drunk, learn something valuable (this took practice), forget while you sober up, go on a mission, and if you get caught either they won't know how to get the information, or by the time the enemy gets the information you'll be so plastered that you won't mind the gun on your head. On second thought, maybe there was a good reason Waldo drank.

"Ma douce, coquine ingénieux petit. Bientôt, ce seront vos brûlures."