(no subject)
Sometimes she listens to his heart, while they lay in bed together after a “dinner as colleagues.” She traces the lines on his chest, along the indents of muscles, across his ribs, over his hips, all the while pressing her ear against his skin, relishing in his heat and listening to his heart beat strong and steady. Nate often falls asleep, her fingers trailing up and down his torso, but tonight, he's flipping through a new file. Sophie's pretty sure that all he ever does is work now, but she thinks it's better than what he had been doing before.
Her fingers trailed over his collarbone, dipping into the hollow of his muscles and lingering over the raised flesh of the scar she'd given him. Eliot wasn't the only one of them who could compare scars. She and Nate had plenty, many of them they had traded, back and forth, like this one, the one she was currently tracing with the delicate tip of her finger.
“I didn't think you'd actually shoot me,” his voice surprises her, deep in her ear, and she looks up at him without lifting her head. “I didn't even think you'd have a gun. Didn't think it was your style.”
She smiles fondly at him, reaching up and taking the file out of his hand. It drops to the bed next to his shoulder with a flutter of papers, and Sophie returns her hand to it's mission across his chest. “It was my insurance policy. If you'd just waited two more minutes, I wouldn't have had to use it.”
His hand smooths over her back, slipping under the blanket she'd pulled up around them to rest on the curve of her hip. He lets it pause for a moment, then slides it back up her side, over the light mark that used to be the scar he'd given her the same night she'd shot him. He wonders how much money she spent getting it removed, how many identities she burned trying to make it invisible.
It's not something he's ever asked, and it's certainly not something he plans to bring up now.
“You're lucky I didn't shoot you again, after you shot me.”
Nate huffs a soft laugh, sliding his hand up and through Sophie's hair. She lets him pull her up, bodies sliding together until their lips are even with each other, pressing together and effectively silencing anything she might have said to him. Sophie pulls back, scoots down, and brushes her lips against the scar on his collarbone, then moved to another mark on his shoulder, one she knows she didn't leave there.
He struggles with the irony when he says, “Eliot left that. He threw a knife at me over his shoulder in Israel, pinned me to a wall,” Nate can laugh about it now, and does, quietly. “That was about five years before Chicago.”
Sophie hums lightly in the back of her throat, and moves down his chest, to a burn on his ribs. “Morocco,” Nate murmurs, “'98. I was training Sterling.”
“I wish you hadn't,” Sophie mutters, and Nate lets a smile curve his lips. It fades when her lips touch his hip.
“There's not a scar there.”
Sophie grins wickedly up at him, and Nate imagines that her teeth look very sharp. In a flash, the illusion is gone, and she says, “Not yet.” She doesn't linger on his scars for the rest of the night.
Her fingers trailed over his collarbone, dipping into the hollow of his muscles and lingering over the raised flesh of the scar she'd given him. Eliot wasn't the only one of them who could compare scars. She and Nate had plenty, many of them they had traded, back and forth, like this one, the one she was currently tracing with the delicate tip of her finger.
“I didn't think you'd actually shoot me,” his voice surprises her, deep in her ear, and she looks up at him without lifting her head. “I didn't even think you'd have a gun. Didn't think it was your style.”
She smiles fondly at him, reaching up and taking the file out of his hand. It drops to the bed next to his shoulder with a flutter of papers, and Sophie returns her hand to it's mission across his chest. “It was my insurance policy. If you'd just waited two more minutes, I wouldn't have had to use it.”
His hand smooths over her back, slipping under the blanket she'd pulled up around them to rest on the curve of her hip. He lets it pause for a moment, then slides it back up her side, over the light mark that used to be the scar he'd given her the same night she'd shot him. He wonders how much money she spent getting it removed, how many identities she burned trying to make it invisible.
It's not something he's ever asked, and it's certainly not something he plans to bring up now.
“You're lucky I didn't shoot you again, after you shot me.”
Nate huffs a soft laugh, sliding his hand up and through Sophie's hair. She lets him pull her up, bodies sliding together until their lips are even with each other, pressing together and effectively silencing anything she might have said to him. Sophie pulls back, scoots down, and brushes her lips against the scar on his collarbone, then moved to another mark on his shoulder, one she knows she didn't leave there.
He struggles with the irony when he says, “Eliot left that. He threw a knife at me over his shoulder in Israel, pinned me to a wall,” Nate can laugh about it now, and does, quietly. “That was about five years before Chicago.”
Sophie hums lightly in the back of her throat, and moves down his chest, to a burn on his ribs. “Morocco,” Nate murmurs, “'98. I was training Sterling.”
“I wish you hadn't,” Sophie mutters, and Nate lets a smile curve his lips. It fades when her lips touch his hip.
“There's not a scar there.”
Sophie grins wickedly up at him, and Nate imagines that her teeth look very sharp. In a flash, the illusion is gone, and she says, “Not yet.” She doesn't linger on his scars for the rest of the night.