leverage fic: far from the madding crowd (sophie/hardison)
One of two fics written for the porn battle. Because assuming the team splits up after the fade-to-black, then the only way I want to think of them is spending their free time randomly hooking up in exotic locations all over the world.
Also to shore up my multishipper cred. I think this might be the only Sophie/Hardison fic out there. In which case: FIRST. Hee.
Far from the Madding Crowd, Leverage, Sophie/Hardison
Set post-Second David Job. Adult, 1352 words.
It's either the best of times or the worst of times for a visit, depending on how you look at it.
Sophie, for her part, doesn't act surprised when Hardison drops down beside her in the sand; she doesn't try to cover up, anyway.
He says, after a moment, and rather philosophically, "So you know why I never go around naked in the great outdoors? 'Cause they got these spy satellites now that can zoom in on a pimple. Or, you know, things a little," he gestures, "bigger."
Sophie, who's been watching him through her giant sunglasses, now lowers her book and shifts in her beach chair to face him. "And that's why you don't walk around outside naked?"
"One of many reasons, I'll admit."
There's a gentle breeze off the water, but damn it's warm, sun high overhead and glare-y. He drags his shirt off over his head.
Sophie lies back, an arm stretched lazily over the back of the chair, where, he can't help noticing, a bikini top is draped, strings dangling. "Are you telling me someone in a cubicle at the Pentagon is taking snapshots of my breasts as we speak?" she says.
"Just sayin', if they turn up on Google Earth tomorrow I will be saying I told you so. While laughing."
"No such thing as privacy any more, is there."
Hardison looks up and down her private beach, and yeah, privacy is an illusion. Like there must be staff around here somewhere, because Sophie's tall, ice-filled glass just starting to perspire came from somewhere. There's a secluded cabin just visible through the palm trees, she's set herself up here like a movie star trying to avoid the paparazzi, and it's not like she's not working it. But someone is always watching, even if it's just the kind of people the kind of people who have private beaches don't tend to see. Or the people like him, and Sophie, and that guy at the Pentagon, who don't get noticed unless and until they want to be.
A soft snort comes from Sophie when he doesn't reply. "Forgot who I was talking to for a minute there." She nudges her sunglasses down her nose with a fingertip and peers over at him. "Well I won't bother asking how you found me. Any particular reason for the visit?"
"Hey, I like you people, I don't need a reason to stop by and see a friend."
"I'm touched. Although you are staring at my breasts an awful lot for someone who considers himself a friend."
"Well, you are not wearing a top an awful lot. And I have eyes."
He directs them for a while out to sea, all the same.
Sophie doesn't seem to mind all that much, really, going by the humour in her voice as she says, "The water's lovely, very good for cooling off."
"Shame I left my water wings back at my hotel."
"Hardison," she's laughing suddenly, as she shakes her head and takes off the sunglasses, leaving them on her seat as she gets up. "It's a private beach, remember?" she calls back to him as she reaches the wet sand and the edges of little waves run up to cover her feet.
"Yeah, and didn't we have this conversation already?" he yells after her.
The fact is, he is sweating from the heat, and the water - hell everything looks inviting from where he's sitting. And though usually he is the very definition of prudence and good judgement, right now he decides to just be glad he is wearing neither tighty-whiteys nor his Yoda boxer shorts under his pants.
Someone just better bring him a damn drink with an umbrella at some point. Just for the record.
The water feels good.
"Now isn't that better?" Sophie says, as the current pulls at them gently, lapping around their hips.
"Uhm-hm," he agrees, and looks down at his feet, which he can see because the water is very clear, and because looking at Sophie will only force him to ponder some more whether she is like something out of a three-page fold-out like this, or like classical art, like Venus emerging from the sea.
He falls backwards with a splash, letting the water close over him, take him where it will, and he knows, he knows Sophie is up there still laughing at him.
(A big drink. Something with pineapple.)
Some time later, they come up from the beach covered in salt and sand, and Sophie doesn't head straight for the stairs up to the deck, but veers off the path to the outdoor shower. And okay, he's been trying to be discreet, because that's how Nanna raised him, but now he just stares as she stands under the spray and slicks back her hair, and she's laughing at him as she reaches out and pulls him under too. The sand rinses off of places and sticks stubbornly in others while they stand there under the water and he goes to kiss her and she lets him, cupping his cheek and opening her mouth while those breasts he's becoming increasingly familiar with since just recently press soft against his chest.
Then, up on the sun-warmed deck. Even after the shower, Sophie, she tastes like nothing but the sea when he slides her bikini bottoms down off her legs and applies his tongue to the crease between thigh and hip. Her fingers slide over his skull and she pulls him in closer, making a satisfied sound when his tongue finds her folds, and then her clit. A foot presses between his shoulder blades and her back arches as he lifts his eyes up the length of her body.
He's so hard it's painful by the time she grabs at his shoulders and urges him up over her.
Her broad smile greets him. She says, "Not bad."
"Not bad?" His voice does not crack on that last word, thank god, when her hand snakes between them and grips his dick. But it is a close thing.
A tiny shrug from her. "Well I'm British, we understate things."
One day this woman is going to say 'actually, I'm not really from England, I'm from Mars,' and Hardison swears he will not even pretend not to believe her.
But her mouth seeks his again and the slow wet slide of her tongue makes him forget the Close Encounters fantasy for the much more tangible here and now, where Sophie's hand is moving from his dick to his ass and she is urging him in and he is going, hell yes he is.
When it's over, he rolls over and flops on his back beside her, an arm over his eyes as his breathing evens out. When he glances out from under his arm she's lying there calm and quiet with one knee raised and her hands on her stomach, smiling faintly, eyes shut.
He shifts his arm behind his head and stares up at a couple of white fluffy clouds high overhead. He says, "'Kay but seriously now, we are never telling Nate about that, right? 'Cause man will cut my balls off."
"Oh, he would not."
"Only because I can make it so he never uses an ATM again without a SWAT team showing up. Still."
Sophie reaches over and pats his chest in a lazy way. "It's nice that you're optimistic."
He looks over at her again. "Which part of that was -?"
"The part where you're imagining us all back together again."
When she turns her face to the side to look at him, he can't help but stare back, eyes widening. "You don't think - or do you not want that to happen."
She shrugs. "I don't know."
"Huh." He gives a shrug of his own. "Call me an optimist, then."
"You realise," Sophie says after a moment, "that you're now hoping that Nate will have the chance to -"
"Yep."
Smiling, Sophie rolls over to use his shoulder as a pillow, and the breeze off the water carries with it the smell of the sea.