tell me about all your lies and lives [chuck, r]
tell me about all your lies and lives
chuck
r | carina, bryce/carina | 1060
spoilers/warnings: pre-series
summary: she knew him first. no that's not really true.
n: xposting from the 'hard to say goodbye' ficathon
He's Sarah's partner but she knew him first.
No, that's not really true.
It was Bolivia. So hot and humid that her skin never felt quite clean. Her sweat gathered at her joints -- inside of her elbows, the back of her knees, behind her ears (places he would touch later and she would make herself forget about) -- and she felt the sweet musty smell of it followed her everywhere.
They met in the middle of the jungle.
He was undercover (they always are) and wearing dark aviators, a white linen shirt, and there was glock tucked into the back of his pants. A two day old beard covered his face, but his teeth flashed white and blinding in the sun.
She was undercover too (she always is). She doesn't remember what she was wearing. An old tank top probably. Her knives tucked into the waist band of her pants, and in the inside of her boots. A thin blade in her bra. No gun.
It was a hut that moonlighted as a bar on the river.
Their eyes had met across the room just before the rebels had started shooting. Her knives had found themselves embed in a couple throats. His bullets had found their targets. They officially met behind an upturned table, as he switched his magazine and grinned wide at her.
"Bruce Kent."
She laughed. "Lois."
He laughed.
"Let's get out of her, Lois."
"Whatever you say, Bruce."
They had left that hut in ruins, the door crunching under their boots as they ran to the river and dived. The bar -- alcohol, so flammable -- exploding behind them. The river water was green and opaque but they didn't loose track of each other as they swam across the bank. It was thick river and it took them five minutes. They didn't surface once.
On the opposite bank, they caught their breath, bellies pressed against the mud.
His face was dirty and wet as he turned to her. "Nice to meet you, Lois."
"Back at ya, Bruce."
It's never a plan to meet up. It's the job. It's the life. And each time they're meeting for the first time.
("Clark Green," he says in Moscow.
"Ilana Pertovich," she says in Russian.)
("Lex Richards", he tells her in Greece.
"Olga Martinez," she whispers in his ear.)
(China, Hong Kong:
"Charles Grey," he slides into the stool across from her.
"Marie Senior," she says, extending her hand.)
(Venice:
"Giselle," he groans.
"Shut up," she slaps her hand over his mouth, "Bruce.")
It's not a plan, it's the life, it's the job. They do what can with it. They take what they can with it.
She finds out he's CIA in Rome. They run into each other at the French Embassy's party. He's dressed in a suit, one of the few she's ever encountered him in, and she's dressed in some dress she can't even bother to remember the designer of. All she needs to know is that she can feel her knife press against her thigh each time she moves.
They find out they're there for the same reason over a glass of wine, when she spills it on the Dutch attache and he's there trying to lift the man's wallet. Their eyes meet in the middle of this, the attache between them, and she hurries away with both their cellphones.
He corners her by an empty office.
"Fancy meeting you here," he says, tossing her the attache's wallet.
She rolls her eyes and tosses him the phones. "You never call, you never write. What's a girl supposed to think, Agent Larkin."
Eyes flash, but it's his pleasant grin that lets her know just how thin the ground is.
"Very nice. Not many people can hack this." He waves to his phone, tucks it in his jacket pocket.
She grins, "I have my ways. And don't worry, we're on the same side."
"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."
"Of course not." She walks over to him, smoothing his lapel. Bares her teeth when his hand closes over her wrist (with the right twist of his hand he could break it. She knows how to kill him where she stands). The challenge is there in his eyes, in his posture, in his smile and she meets it head on. Everything in her life she meets head on.
Neither of them back down.
Looking down at the wallet in her hand and the phone in his, he lets go of her wrist. "His office is on the fourth floor."
She nods, alliance met. "I knew that. Let's go."
"Well done, agents."
"Thank you, sir."
"Thank you, sir."
"You'll both head home for further debriefs." And two separate screens go black.
They turn to each other.
She exhales, her breath fogging up the glass, as his hands travel up her thighs. He's panting against her ear, fingers dipping into her, circling her clit. One hand reaches back to dig into his hair, the other fists useless against the mirror of the bathroom. Neither trusted the other to go to their hotel room. They're broke into the Dutch attache's room, who will not be using it tonight, as he's being arrested by Interpol.
"Fuck," she gasps as he presses her against the cold glass. His hands curl on her thighs and he spins her agains the sink, and she's balancing on her toes as she thrusts back against him.
She's going to have bruises but she doesn't care.
He's groaning against her neck.
Their adrenaline pushing them past the point and back again.
(Sydney:
"Liam."
"Katherine.
He fucks her half way to Melbourne in the car they rent.)
She grins at Sarah as they have coffee in D.C. She's being loaned to the CIA for the week as they out a drug cartel in Cairo.
"You'll meet my partner on this, Bryce."
She's Carina today. "Sounds like a dork."
"He's not."
She laughs, "So you're sleeping with him."
Sarah says nothing, but she doesn't have too. It's the life, it's the game.
Cairo:
"Bryce," he grins a her. Teeth flashing, against his tan and five o'clock shadow.
"Carina," she replies. Her tank top is drenched with sweat. Her knives tucked into her boots.
It's hot and humid, sweat's gathering in her joints. She once met a man named Bruce in a place like this.
chuck
r | carina, bryce/carina | 1060
spoilers/warnings: pre-series
summary: she knew him first. no that's not really true.
n: xposting from the 'hard to say goodbye' ficathon
He's Sarah's partner but she knew him first.
No, that's not really true.
It was Bolivia. So hot and humid that her skin never felt quite clean. Her sweat gathered at her joints -- inside of her elbows, the back of her knees, behind her ears (places he would touch later and she would make herself forget about) -- and she felt the sweet musty smell of it followed her everywhere.
They met in the middle of the jungle.
He was undercover (they always are) and wearing dark aviators, a white linen shirt, and there was glock tucked into the back of his pants. A two day old beard covered his face, but his teeth flashed white and blinding in the sun.
She was undercover too (she always is). She doesn't remember what she was wearing. An old tank top probably. Her knives tucked into the waist band of her pants, and in the inside of her boots. A thin blade in her bra. No gun.
It was a hut that moonlighted as a bar on the river.
Their eyes had met across the room just before the rebels had started shooting. Her knives had found themselves embed in a couple throats. His bullets had found their targets. They officially met behind an upturned table, as he switched his magazine and grinned wide at her.
"Bruce Kent."
She laughed. "Lois."
He laughed.
"Let's get out of her, Lois."
"Whatever you say, Bruce."
They had left that hut in ruins, the door crunching under their boots as they ran to the river and dived. The bar -- alcohol, so flammable -- exploding behind them. The river water was green and opaque but they didn't loose track of each other as they swam across the bank. It was thick river and it took them five minutes. They didn't surface once.
On the opposite bank, they caught their breath, bellies pressed against the mud.
His face was dirty and wet as he turned to her. "Nice to meet you, Lois."
"Back at ya, Bruce."
It's never a plan to meet up. It's the job. It's the life. And each time they're meeting for the first time.
("Clark Green," he says in Moscow.
"Ilana Pertovich," she says in Russian.)
("Lex Richards", he tells her in Greece.
"Olga Martinez," she whispers in his ear.)
(China, Hong Kong:
"Charles Grey," he slides into the stool across from her.
"Marie Senior," she says, extending her hand.)
(Venice:
"Giselle," he groans.
"Shut up," she slaps her hand over his mouth, "Bruce.")
It's not a plan, it's the life, it's the job. They do what can with it. They take what they can with it.
She finds out he's CIA in Rome. They run into each other at the French Embassy's party. He's dressed in a suit, one of the few she's ever encountered him in, and she's dressed in some dress she can't even bother to remember the designer of. All she needs to know is that she can feel her knife press against her thigh each time she moves.
They find out they're there for the same reason over a glass of wine, when she spills it on the Dutch attache and he's there trying to lift the man's wallet. Their eyes meet in the middle of this, the attache between them, and she hurries away with both their cellphones.
He corners her by an empty office.
"Fancy meeting you here," he says, tossing her the attache's wallet.
She rolls her eyes and tosses him the phones. "You never call, you never write. What's a girl supposed to think, Agent Larkin."
Eyes flash, but it's his pleasant grin that lets her know just how thin the ground is.
"Very nice. Not many people can hack this." He waves to his phone, tucks it in his jacket pocket.
She grins, "I have my ways. And don't worry, we're on the same side."
"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."
"Of course not." She walks over to him, smoothing his lapel. Bares her teeth when his hand closes over her wrist (with the right twist of his hand he could break it. She knows how to kill him where she stands). The challenge is there in his eyes, in his posture, in his smile and she meets it head on. Everything in her life she meets head on.
Neither of them back down.
Looking down at the wallet in her hand and the phone in his, he lets go of her wrist. "His office is on the fourth floor."
She nods, alliance met. "I knew that. Let's go."
"Well done, agents."
"Thank you, sir."
"Thank you, sir."
"You'll both head home for further debriefs." And two separate screens go black.
They turn to each other.
She exhales, her breath fogging up the glass, as his hands travel up her thighs. He's panting against her ear, fingers dipping into her, circling her clit. One hand reaches back to dig into his hair, the other fists useless against the mirror of the bathroom. Neither trusted the other to go to their hotel room. They're broke into the Dutch attache's room, who will not be using it tonight, as he's being arrested by Interpol.
"Fuck," she gasps as he presses her against the cold glass. His hands curl on her thighs and he spins her agains the sink, and she's balancing on her toes as she thrusts back against him.
She's going to have bruises but she doesn't care.
He's groaning against her neck.
Their adrenaline pushing them past the point and back again.
(Sydney:
"Liam."
"Katherine.
He fucks her half way to Melbourne in the car they rent.)
She grins at Sarah as they have coffee in D.C. She's being loaned to the CIA for the week as they out a drug cartel in Cairo.
"You'll meet my partner on this, Bryce."
She's Carina today. "Sounds like a dork."
"He's not."
She laughs, "So you're sleeping with him."
Sarah says nothing, but she doesn't have too. It's the life, it's the game.
Cairo:
"Bryce," he grins a her. Teeth flashing, against his tan and five o'clock shadow.
"Carina," she replies. Her tank top is drenched with sweat. Her knives tucked into her boots.
It's hot and humid, sweat's gathering in her joints. She once met a man named Bruce in a place like this.