AN: I do not own.
The first time Vincent meets her he is a foreigner. Pulse throbbing, breath a tremor, eyes fixed on his hands fixed in his lap. Words stick at the back of his throat, hitch over his tongue to make him stumble stutter stammer through answers he can hardly remember.
He has to escape death-in-exile. It strikes him as a lost cause.
Her voice silences him. She is a clipped, half-lidded stare and he feels the weight as she watches him. His hands contract, gathering the fabric of his pants. Head falling forward he wants to cave into himself now more than anything he wants…
It doesn't matter what he wants.
"There's nothing unusual about you," she says. "You're not special. I'll forget this once you step out that door. Just get it over with."
A moment, then he breathes. The smile quavers on his lips. He meets her gaze, finds himself sinking into the blue depths of her and he cannot surface.
"Thank you, Inspector."