“well full discretion–I am more of a lover than a fighter.” he wasn’t here on behalf of UNCLE, trying to get close to the woman simply to use her. he was ordered by U.N.I.T. to get to know her better – after all she was his mission not too long ago ( and still is ). but he was also genuinely curious. the way charlotte…melody(?) spoke about her, it seemed to contrast what was being said by the other agents and everyone else. looking at the glass that was soon shattered, he couldn’t help but smile amusingly at the scene. “i have a feeling you aren’t very apologetic. but it’s okay, i grabbed those from the kitchen so they won’t be missed….i think.” taking out a bag of chips, he took one out before biting into it, wondering how to answer her question. “to speak to a beautiful masterpiece is enough for me to be curious about you, anna. like i said, i am a lover not a fighter. i prefer to get to know my comrades in arm and if you haven’t noticed–you’re beautiful so it’s always nice to speak to an enchanting woman as yourself.” the words came easily as he took another swig of the alcohol before nodding slowly. “very clever of you. long plane rides and alcohol are just a perfect marriage. so tell me–what other alcohols have you tried? any sake from japan? not as strong mind you, but it does warm you down to your toes on cold winters.”
“You know who says that? People that can’t fight.” Anna, for one, was never anything but a fighter. Fighting was in her veins, in her DNA. She can’t remember a time that she was not fighting (that’s a lie: she remembers a blonde woman’s smile, holding her hand as she went round and round and round in a pink tutu —- that’s not a memory, that’s a creation. she remembers a blonde woman’s straight face as she danced until her feet bled; YOU ARE MADE OF MARBLE. YOU’LL NEVER BREAK.). “That’s a pity.” She says, looking at the shattered pieces on the floor. It only comes to her after she utters the words that perhaps it is a good thing that they won’t notice. She doesn’t have to make a statement. It is a good thing that they don’t notice it: she can take the sharpest pieces and keep them on her room, hidden, for when she needs it, and she knows she’ll need it. Perhaps she can use one of them to go home — he’ll hurt them if you ever leave. She raises her brows, an incredulous smirk on her lips as she looks at him. “Does all of that work in american women?” She’ll never admit to the slight warmth in her cheek, never admit that if feels rather good to be called beautiful. “I’ve never drank that, though I must say I am intrigued. I’ve tasted cachaça from Rio de Janeiro, and bagaceira from Portugal. And wine. Loads of wine. Melody likes them, you see, but I don’t think anything is half as good as vodka.”