#pagetorn. Sarah caulfield

[spynorth]

Lucas North & Sarah Caulfield + friendly chat (ft. @pagetorn) ↳ hey, don't ignore a friend's request.

[mastermicd-arch]

@pagetorn, continued from here.

agencies trying to work hand in hand, was always going to be a difficult pathway to navigate. throwing two, very different, sets of people into a room together in the hopes of accelerating an outcome could only go one of two ways. "i'm telling you." words came slightly stronger this time. "you might have an opinion of me, but you're wrong. i'm here for a reason, just like you are."

[spynorth]

@pagetorn

Long nights with meager bouts of sleep blend with the frustration that curls about his neck and shoulders only to settle, dark and viscous, in the hollow of his chest. For the barest of moments Lucas wonders if it's possible for a man to keep surviving without a heart, limbs moving in a parody of the life that has long since been taken from him, wonders if the smoldering ache of the flame that he's struggled so long to repress will finally consume him. He pictures it - imagines that glorious revolution against the people that have chosen to shoehorn him into some false role that he's meant to be grateful for, meant to play willingly - and he can almost feel the heat on his face as London burns.

"I'm glad you're not holding a grudge."

Sarah's voice probes against his silence, words reaching through the rushing sound that's invaded his ears for the last hour, and the agent feels his fingers curl all the harder against the countertop. He thinks, remembers, recalls the way slender fingers had traced the outlines of tattoos bathed in shadow and damp with sweat, the way she had whispered things he'd thought lost forever... and the noise that crawls out of his throat is as feral as the hand that clamps across his mouth in an effort to stop it. The lies, the half truths he should have seen (like recognizes like, after all) , that feeling of the ground dropping from beneath him as ocean eyes stared down the barrel of a gun held in shaking hands.

No. Please. Not you.

She sits on the couch behind him, cut off from another bid for freedom by the battering ram that is Lucas North, both of them waiting for the other agents who will come to claim her... and the ferocity with which he turns 'round upon her surprises even him.

"No. You do NOT get to talk to me about grudges." There's a finger pointing in her direction, accusing and no doubt laughable, but he's too deep to care. The question he asks next is one that's sat for awhile, waiting in the corner of his mind behind a locked door that it now bursts through, alive with freedom. "Why didn't you do it then? Why not shoot me? Got off too good on throwing your boss over the balcony is that it? Guess a bullet through the idiot you slept with's head is a bit boring after that, isn't it?"

[spynorth]

@pagetorn: 🔪 from Sarah 👀 // hold a knife to my muse’s throat. selectively accepting.

There had been a poem, once ... a glossed image in a well worn book atop a desk, traced with the careful fingers of a boy who no longer existed. The words had come back to him years later, a desperate attempt by a broken brain to comfort the man curled around himself on the barren floor, and cracked lips had mouthed the verses as if by instinct. It’s author had meant it as a warning, a reminder of shadows cast by the sun, but Lucas had attached his own meaning, using it to describe a thing he couldn’t truly nail down. Neither boy nor man had understood the question .. but now, now..

Steel bites into the sensitive skin beneath his chin and the agent swallows softly, blue eyes never straying from the painting on the far wall. She’s there, just off the edge of his vision, and threatening to rob the life from his veins with the same stubborn defiance she’s always had. “Sarah..” Brows furrow for the barest of moments and the muscle along his jaw gives a single twitch, as if rebelling against years of carefully concealed emotions, and her name is a rumble of thunder between them. “Why.” It’s neither statement nor question and Lucas allows himself to turn his head the slightest bit, weight shifting so that the knife bites all the deeper.

Sometimes it’s nice to remember that you can bleed.

Fingers wrap carefully around the other agent’s arm, squeezing slightly as if in an attempt to garner her attention. He thinks of wasted plans, of all the lies they had whispered in the dark. He thinks of early mornings and smiles that had come far more easily than he could ever have hoped for, of blonde hair that fell about his face and shoulders, shielding them like a golden wall... and he turns further, ignoring the sting against the swell of his throat until his gaze holds her own. 

Did he who made the lamb make thee? That old image is in his head again now, a tiger stalking through the night... and Lucas feels the corner of his mouth twitch into a grin at a joke only he can hear. “A knife.” The observation drops like a boulder between them and he arches a brow, expression unchanging. “Intimate as far as an assassination goes. But you always were about passion weren’t you?”

[spynorth]

lucas north + the truth hurts. ft. @pagetorn's sarah caulfield.

[spynorth]

lucas north + blind optimism stupidity, ft. @pagetorn's sarah caulfield.

[spynorth]

lucas north + healthy communication ft. @pagetorn's sarah caulfield.

[spynorth]

@pagetorn s.c (for sarah, i guess :|| )

London looks different in the evenings, muted colors cast in shadow by the streetlamps that flicker to life with every ray of red and orange light that falls across the murky waters of the Thames - and as Lucas strolls across Millennium Bridge, hands tucked securely in coat pockets and collar braced against the wind, he can’t help but offer a crooked grin to the woman who awaits him. “Rough day?” Lips twitch a bit higher, eyes a calm pool of blue that reflect the calm before the storm and words flavored with a ghost of a laugh. “Spent mine recovering from a night with some crazy American. Violet Franklin. Half mad, she was.” He doesn’t bother looking to see if she’s sharing his humor, it doesn’t matter - instead, weight shifts as the agent leans over the side of the bridge, arms balanced against the railing and eyes studying the water’s depths as he continues on to the business he was sent for. 

“You have information on a man that my government is looking for. We’ve no doubt that the last thing the United States wants is to keep any information about an escaped UK prisoner with terrorist ties secret. Imagine if the Guardian got hold of it...” One brow arches as Lucas finally turns in her direction, offering a quick flash of teeth and a shrug of shoulders. “ Lucky for you, that’s what I’m here for. To make sure it doesn’t happen. Oh, come on then, Sarah. Give me the name. And be quick about it.” A gust of wind cuts through them, blonde curls blowing in the breeze, and fingers tuck it carefully into place behind one ear, voice a low thunder to match the gathering clouds as he leans in closer. “I’ve got another date with Violet.”