And yet, [ kate hums in wry agreement. the way she sees it, it makes perfect sense to find this kind of attitude fostered in academia, one of america's oldest known boys' club to still be left standing. it may not be as rampant or blatant as other institutions like sports or even nerd culture, but where there are fragile male egos, there be flagrant misogyny.
she wanders around to idly look through his belongings, figuring everything's free game now that they're in here. it's only when she makes a full sweep around the mahogany desk does she take a spot leaning against it, expectant. ]
So you gonna tell me where the mask is, or do I have to say "pretty please"?
almost absentmindedly, barty starts to straighten a few of the books and papers on his desk. it's habit when he's buying time to make a response - and besides, if somebody does check in on the office, he wants it to look at least a little different. times like this, it pays to be paranoid. ]
Transitional storage room, they'll be moving it into the display in about an hour. Check the bottom of the tiger statue.
[ tucked underneath a small statuette on his bookshelf is a small key that he's definitely not supposed to have. ]
[ after giving it a once-over, she tucks the key into the garter strapped to her thigh, just beside a short row of throwing knives. at his question, she turns to him with a dazzling smile, a kate bishop standard, the kind that gives one the impression they're staring right down the barrel of a gun. ]
Let me worry about that.
[ it is definitely worrisome, to say the least, but she doesn't seem at all fazed by it. instead, she looks him over, readjusts the lapels of his blazer. ]
Four doors down the hall to the left, right? [ she recounts the layout of the museum still fresh in her mind, but it pays to double-check. ]
[ oh. oh right. kate bishop is one of the world’s best sharpshooters - just because barty hasn’t personally seen her in action doesn’t mean that it’s not true. for just a moment, he truly feels it - the bullseye on his chest, the nearly feral glimmer in her eyes. the knives on her thigh aren’t the only thing that’s sharp.
bartholomew rook realizes that he’s in deep, deep trouble. ]
Sure.
[ but he smiles, tight-lipped and polite, as kate fiddles with his jacket. ] Yeah. I’ll keep watch. Don’t get sticky fingers, Bishop.
[ that smile only seems to sharpen as she takes note of the sudden tension in his shoulders. ]
Who, me? I'm the good guy, remember?
[ he's flashed a wink, like it's some secret shared between the two of them, and then she's slipping away and out of the office, quiet as a mouse. a quick glance down either side of the hall tells her the coast is clear for now, so she makes her way towards the storage room, heels carefully silent despite the swiftness of her steps.
she's nearly there when she hears the sound of chatter down the opposite end of the hall, and she knows from experience she has only a split second's worth to decide. no corners to hide behind, no door nearby to sneak past.
so she grabs for the next best thing, which is barty himself, just a half-step behind her. his lapel is affronted once more, white-knuckle gripped in a hand as she spins on a heel and whirls them around — her back hits the wall and he's pulled right up against her, flush, no room for jesus or even a breath because she's stealing his next one, sealing her lips firmly around his.
[ he almost doesn’t follow her. kate’s a professional heroine (if that’s even an actual job), they went over the plan. kate does the lift, he provides access and keeps watch, they both get out easy enough. and with the layout of the back corridors of the museum, it’s eventually a dead end to a room mostly used to store cleaning equipment and chairs, nobody should be coming from there.
should be.
but she turns to saunter off, barty gets this moment of last-minute paranoia. and without thinking about it, he’s following her down the hall, silently trailing. not that barty’s trying to keep secret from kate specifically, just - general secretive.
and it’s a good thing, too, because there’s chatter from exactly where there shouldn’t be. and thank god for kate bishop’s quick thinking. to his credit, barty’s not shocked, or at least he doesn’t let it show for long. Instinct takes over. barty rook does not kiss shyly, but with the focus and precision of a man who’s not only experienced in his fair share of against-the-wall hookups, but just might have pulled this distracting trick before.
he grabs kate’s leg and hikes it up, hoping that she’s as flexible as he assumed, and gets a good handful right where thigh meets ass. hey, this isn’t a time that he can (hah!) half-ass anything. it’s all in the name of making it look real. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
she wanders around to idly look through his belongings, figuring everything's free game now that they're in here. it's only when she makes a full sweep around the mahogany desk does she take a spot leaning against it, expectant. ]
So you gonna tell me where the mask is, or do I have to say "pretty please"?
no subject
almost absentmindedly, barty starts to straighten a few of the books and papers on his desk. it's habit when he's buying time to make a response - and besides, if somebody does check in on the office, he wants it to look at least a little different. times like this, it pays to be paranoid. ]
Transitional storage room, they'll be moving it into the display in about an hour. Check the bottom of the tiger statue.
[ tucked underneath a small statuette on his bookshelf is a small key that he's definitely not supposed to have. ]
You got a way to stash it while we're leaving?
no subject
Let me worry about that.
[ it is definitely worrisome, to say the least, but she doesn't seem at all fazed by it. instead, she looks him over, readjusts the lapels of his blazer. ]
Four doors down the hall to the left, right? [ she recounts the layout of the museum still fresh in her mind, but it pays to double-check. ]
no subject
bartholomew rook realizes that he’s in deep, deep trouble. ]
Sure.
[ but he smiles, tight-lipped and polite, as kate fiddles with his jacket. ] Yeah. I’ll keep watch. Don’t get sticky fingers, Bishop.
no subject
Who, me? I'm the good guy, remember?
[ he's flashed a wink, like it's some secret shared between the two of them, and then she's slipping away and out of the office, quiet as a mouse. a quick glance down either side of the hall tells her the coast is clear for now, so she makes her way towards the storage room, heels carefully silent despite the swiftness of her steps.
she's nearly there when she hears the sound of chatter down the opposite end of the hall, and she knows from experience she has only a split second's worth to decide. no corners to hide behind, no door nearby to sneak past.
so she grabs for the next best thing, which is barty himself, just a half-step behind her. his lapel is affronted once more, white-knuckle gripped in a hand as she spins on a heel and whirls them around — her back hits the wall and he's pulled right up against her, flush, no room for jesus or even a breath because she's stealing his next one, sealing her lips firmly around his.
look alive, rook. ]
no subject
should be.
but she turns to saunter off, barty gets this moment of last-minute paranoia. and without thinking about it, he’s following her down the hall, silently trailing. not that barty’s trying to keep secret from kate specifically, just - general secretive.
and it’s a good thing, too, because there’s chatter from exactly where there shouldn’t be. and thank god for kate bishop’s quick thinking. to his credit, barty’s not shocked, or at least he doesn’t let it show for long. Instinct takes over. barty rook does not kiss shyly, but with the focus and precision of a man who’s not only experienced in his fair share of against-the-wall hookups, but just might have pulled this distracting trick before.
he grabs kate’s leg and hikes it up, hoping that she’s as flexible as he assumed, and gets a good handful right where thigh meets ass. hey, this isn’t a time that he can (hah!) half-ass anything. it’s all in the name of making it look real. ]