It doesn't take him much to be spurred toward the notes of what make his team. The way they pull together, and how they bite against the current everyone else would just go with. "Max figured out who the actual Trash-man serial killer was, and freed the man who'd been put away for it decades ago."
He's filling a fork but not lifting it, as files are whizzing past him. "Chin and Danny ended up mainland'd over in Los Angeles helping an old colleague of mine in NCIS. Between them, they took out Dracul Comescu and helped to keep a new small pox epidemic breakout from starting."
Both of which are said with some pride and no lack of surprise. He believes in the work his people do for a reason. They don't let him down, even when they have to fight him to prove a point, and they've won by their gut, even against him. It's why he trusts them at his back. And. Yeah. Neither of those are his. Which he's getting more as he says, but it like wading into the pool of what Cath doesn't know.
And then realizing there's still more. And there's always a lot. But it's not usually this kind of a lot. And, he's not so much avoiding it, but touching it, will toss open the door. Then, it's all just dominoes and missteps. International terrorists and ghosts, both handing themselves to him only on their own terms, and both vanishing back into the night, through his fingers.
He isn't actually good at pausing anyway, when the shorted way through is in. Going off like a gun, with a bang.
"But aside from bringing Wo Fat in," And the tone there is disregard enough. It's not pity, or a request for sympathy, but there's no boast in it. A single fact. Just like there hadn't been any when he caught him, sitting down, drinking his tea. Or watching him, stone-faced, saying we'll see as the door closed. He should have known better. "-I only got back in two weeks ago, too."
Barely two weeks. Barely two days. It was all the same thing right? Except those two weeks were full of things, too.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-01-18 03:50 am (UTC)He's filling a fork but not lifting it, as files are whizzing past him. "Chin and Danny ended up mainland'd over in Los Angeles helping an old colleague of mine in NCIS. Between them, they took out Dracul Comescu and helped to keep a new small pox epidemic breakout from starting."
Both of which are said with some pride and no lack of surprise. He believes in the work his people do for a reason. They don't let him down, even when they have to fight him to prove a point, and they've won by their gut, even against him. It's why he trusts them at his back. And. Yeah. Neither of those are his. Which he's getting more as he says, but it like wading into the pool of what Cath doesn't know.
And then realizing there's still more. And there's always a lot. But it's not usually this kind of a lot. And, he's not so much avoiding it, but touching it, will toss open the door. Then, it's all just dominoes and missteps. International terrorists and ghosts, both handing themselves to him only on their own terms, and both vanishing back into the night, through his fingers.
He isn't actually good at pausing anyway, when the shorted way through is in. Going off like a gun, with a bang.
"But aside from bringing Wo Fat in," And the tone there is disregard enough. It's not pity, or a request for sympathy, but there's no boast in it. A single fact. Just like there hadn't been any when he caught him, sitting down, drinking his tea. Or watching him, stone-faced, saying we'll see as the door closed. He should have known better. "-I only got back in two weeks ago, too."
Barely two weeks. Barely two days. It was all the same thing right? Except those two weeks were full of things, too.