painting white flags blue ; carter + hill


It’s coughed out, caught and muffled by her shoulder while she’s fishing around in her bag for her sunglasses. They’re not three steps clear of the doors and the sun seems impossibly bright after their several hour indoor meeting- it’s jabbing at the beginning of her headache like it’s armed with an ice pick. Her phone is next and she can’t seems to locate it wherever it is among the dregs of her bag; she wants to stab out a violent ( implied, of course ) email, but it doesn’t matter because the person she’d likely send it to is right next to her.

Maria pushes her sunglasses over her nose with the heel of her palm, gives up on the phone, and finally levels out her eyeline while they move at a steady clip away from the Triskelion.

Everything that they’ve just been subjected to, all of the things that were just presented- it’s all a tangle in her mind. She’s fogged up and pissed off, only able to manage muttered curses for the first hundred yards. Once they’re nearly clear of the property Maria turns her head, finally looking at Sharon, but rushed movement just past the blonde catches her attention. It doesn’t take her more than the span of several seconds to recognize the glint off of camera lenses for what it is ( and also for what it isn’t- her right hand shifts subtly away from her conceal-carry ).




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