Wish You Were Here (1.6)

a slight reprimand

“You lost him?”

“Yeah, I lost him.”

I bit my lip, thinking, eyes darting to the side.  I glanced up, studying the ceiling tiles for a moment, before lowering them to stare at the digital recorder between us.  Agent Morrison waited, robotic, her straight platinum hair tied back in a utilitarian ponytail.  She waited for me as though she knew, like she was expecting, a change in responses.

“Rather,” I continued, “he lost me.  Whichever.”

One corner of her austere lips twitched ever so slightly, signalling veiled bemusement.  She jotted something down in her notes.

“These things happen,” I said.

Glancing up at me, she flashed a quick, cold smile before resuming her note-taking.

“Even the best make mistakes,” I went on, tugging nervously at the fabric of my slacks.  “Who do you trust?”  I puffed my cheeks, and exhaled a big breath of stale air I didn't even know I was holding.  “Who do you trust?” I repeated.  “Who can we trust?”

Agent Morrison simply kept writing for a moment, then stopped, purposefully dotting her last sentence before setting down her pen.  She carefully lined the pen up so it was parallel with the edge of her notebook, which she then closed with equal intent.

Locking her grey eyes on me then, she reached across the table to turn the recorder off.  She leant forward ever so slightly.  I'm sure the colour drained from my face.

“You don't trust anyone.” she coolly answered.  “When you're tracking someone who counts shapeshifting amongst his repertoire, you don't trust anyone.”