Jan. 13th, 2009

walking_napalm: (flattered)
Liz's Spanish officially sucks.

She always knew that, but the last four days on the Yucatan Peninsula served as a strong reminder.

(Walking through the halls of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, Liz glances down the fork that would take her toward her own room -- and she goes the other way instead. It's a very easy decision.)

Still, she no longer has to rely on a piss-scared green agent to allow her to talk to locals, she's totally getting pizza later, there is one very crispy goat-mutilating creep back in Mexico, and she gets to sleep in her own (okay, more likely Red's own) bed tonight. That makes this situation a definite win.

Liz is carrying a duffel bag over her shoulder as she cranks the vault door open; she's still dressed from the mission, gunbelt on and stab vest tucked under her arm. Her boots are dusty; there is a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose (the damn sun), and her left hand is bandaged.

She half-smiles to herself, small and warm, as she quietly slips through the door and is greeted by Steve McQueen and Bubbles, among others.

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Liz Sherman

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