[TM] 235: Show us where you live
Jun. 30th, 2008 02:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elementof_riskThey are scattered across the globe, hideaways tucked away under names that no one knows. More than safe houses established by Irina, these are his and only his. No one has a key but the cleaning service and none of his neighbors know anything about the quiet young man who is almost never home. They gossip to themselves, wondering why there isn't a tenant, spinning tales about what he does when he isn't there. Some of them even hit on the truth in their fanciful dreams, but the others just laugh at them, and they brush it aside. He is exotic, in that way, and they like their stories, but no one bothers him when he is there, and no one says a bad word about him. Quiet, polite, charming and pleasant without inviting any familiarity, he moves in and out of their world with barely a whisper. London. Santorini. St. Martin. Sydney. Alexandria. Vancouver. Montreal. St. Petersburg. New York.
No personal pictures adorn any of the walls in any of the so-called homes. There is tasteful art on the walls, usually local, reflecting the flavor of the city he's chosen to make a home of sorts in. A few suits hang in each closet, carefully tailored, the shirts always pressed. The necessities and staples are there in cabinets, though he always stops by the market on the way in from the airport for fresh supplies.
His cleaning staff mutters that they feel like model homes, always ready to impress, but not lived in. He's never there long enough to make much of a mark, to do more than settle for a few moments, a week, maybe two, and then whatever impression he left behind fades away as if he was never there.
It's his suitcase that bears the marks. Worn around the edges, it follows behind him, trotting across the globe faithfully. They know each other well--what can fit, what will strain it too much, how to coax the last bit into the crevices before tugging the zipper around. There's a compartment for his weapons, neatly tucked away.
As well as he knows the suitcase, he knows, too, the rev of the engine under him as he sprawls back on the sofa, laptop open, working, as usual. There is an attendant who knows to keep her mouth shut, a pilot too well paid to be tempted away. And there are memories. She sat there, telling him her plan before walking in to the CIA. He paced the length of the cabin, nervous as a cat, before his first major solo job. If he concentrates, he imagines that he can see the mark on the carpet where they spilled the wine they drank on the way to Hong Kong, toasting their sure success only to be knocked about by a sudden burst of turbulence in the air. He made love to Lauren in that seat, heated hands sliding under clothes, and her riding him, laughing when he suggested the move to the sofa, to the floor, to the bed, and rocking herself more against him until moving was the furthest thing from his mind. One window has a spider crack that's fixed but not forgotten, from where a bullet bounced off as they made an escape. There is closet full of weapons, tucked behind a coat rack there just for show and inspections. Pillows and blankets are tossed in another closet, lush and luxurious and comfortable enough to make him forget he is on a plane, and he has slept in the bedroom tucked away at the back of the plane more than he has any on the ground. Here are the pictures, the bits of sentiment, the things of the past, scattered across a dresser, tacked down. A moment on the beach, a sunset from the Eiffel Tower, a picnic in Moscow, a smiling woman he doesn't remember, but whose picture he keeps nonetheless.
He has houses tucked away in some of the most beautiful places on Earth, and he chose each one because of a love of the city, the area, some aesthetic value that pleases him. He feels at peace in each one, away from the rigors of his job, his clients, his life. They are his oasis, his vacation, his getaways.
This jet, this suitcase, these trappings of constant motion, of missions past and ones to come, this is where he lives. This is home. And he would not have it any other way.
No personal pictures adorn any of the walls in any of the so-called homes. There is tasteful art on the walls, usually local, reflecting the flavor of the city he's chosen to make a home of sorts in. A few suits hang in each closet, carefully tailored, the shirts always pressed. The necessities and staples are there in cabinets, though he always stops by the market on the way in from the airport for fresh supplies.
His cleaning staff mutters that they feel like model homes, always ready to impress, but not lived in. He's never there long enough to make much of a mark, to do more than settle for a few moments, a week, maybe two, and then whatever impression he left behind fades away as if he was never there.
It's his suitcase that bears the marks. Worn around the edges, it follows behind him, trotting across the globe faithfully. They know each other well--what can fit, what will strain it too much, how to coax the last bit into the crevices before tugging the zipper around. There's a compartment for his weapons, neatly tucked away.
As well as he knows the suitcase, he knows, too, the rev of the engine under him as he sprawls back on the sofa, laptop open, working, as usual. There is an attendant who knows to keep her mouth shut, a pilot too well paid to be tempted away. And there are memories. She sat there, telling him her plan before walking in to the CIA. He paced the length of the cabin, nervous as a cat, before his first major solo job. If he concentrates, he imagines that he can see the mark on the carpet where they spilled the wine they drank on the way to Hong Kong, toasting their sure success only to be knocked about by a sudden burst of turbulence in the air. He made love to Lauren in that seat, heated hands sliding under clothes, and her riding him, laughing when he suggested the move to the sofa, to the floor, to the bed, and rocking herself more against him until moving was the furthest thing from his mind. One window has a spider crack that's fixed but not forgotten, from where a bullet bounced off as they made an escape. There is closet full of weapons, tucked behind a coat rack there just for show and inspections. Pillows and blankets are tossed in another closet, lush and luxurious and comfortable enough to make him forget he is on a plane, and he has slept in the bedroom tucked away at the back of the plane more than he has any on the ground. Here are the pictures, the bits of sentiment, the things of the past, scattered across a dresser, tacked down. A moment on the beach, a sunset from the Eiffel Tower, a picnic in Moscow, a smiling woman he doesn't remember, but whose picture he keeps nonetheless.
He has houses tucked away in some of the most beautiful places on Earth, and he chose each one because of a love of the city, the area, some aesthetic value that pleases him. He feels at peace in each one, away from the rigors of his job, his clients, his life. They are his oasis, his vacation, his getaways.
This jet, this suitcase, these trappings of constant motion, of missions past and ones to come, this is where he lives. This is home. And he would not have it any other way.
