(no subject)
i think i'm everything you hate
jack/nancy. hard r. posted mostly so that it's up somewhere and i can delete the file off my hard drive.
secret agent au. warning for character death.
"do you ever get the feeling," he says one morning, drinking coffee he shouldn't be having in a place he shouldn't be, "that somewhere else it's different?"
she grins, quick and easy, around the biscuit in her mouth, and shoves her red sheaf of curls off her shoulder. "everything's different everywhere else, dummy. otherwise everything would be the same, and what fun would that be?"
it's not treason, he tells himself, if she wasn't always on the wrong side.
different side.
other side.
(and he has his own opinions on that, at any rate; almost all the agents she'd known had left the agency very shortly after she herself left, and none of them of their own volition. and he's looked at her record from now, when he's had the chance and his connection wouldn't be traced. no fatalities. almost no casualties. her agency would probably say something to her if she wasn't so fucking good with her knives, and her lies, and damned if she doesn't get the job done just as well as anyone else could.)
and after all, the founding fathers of his country would've been convicted of high treason if it hadn't ended well. not that he's suffering under any delusions that he's doing anything so noble as all that, but it's reassuring, sometimes.
his rooms at headquarters used to be his favorite place -- he had them perfectly laid out, all the furniture was worn in just the way he liked it, there were some hideous plaids but he loved them even if nobody else understood them, and it was him.
now he sits on his bed, and stares at his handheld, and sighs.
he's starting to get a reputation. he's almost positive he is. people just keep trying to set him up, and of course he's polite and goes on the first date, and of course he's polite and gently quashes any idea of a second. or even a good-night kiss, close-mouthed or no.
it's a shitty idea to date an agent, anyway. it'd be like dating a co-worker, only nobody could ever really go home and get any space. that's the perfect setup for homicide, honestly, who's anyone trying to kid? no way for it to end but badly.
nobody ever reads it as anything but pigheadedness, though. and they continue to persist.
he hates it when missions go bad. oh, fucking hates it.
well, really, that ought to be obvious, but it's so tedious when it's not painful. ridiculous mind games, and insane posturing, and no, he's not going to give up any information, would he really be covered with scars the way he is if he had a tendency to spill? honestly. a little bit of thought would be nice.
but this time the room is dark (for now, anyway). and the chair is decent, tied to it though he is. and, well, he's exhausted. whoever it ends up being next will certainly wake him up before going to work on him, anyway. no sense doing anything without his full attention.
he wakes, and thinks he's still dreaming. it's been five months since the last time, it had been three since the time before, but he's never come across anyone else wearing that scent. distinctive, he remembers thinking, the first time he noticed it, and had deemed it appropriate.
then he opens his eyes, and the light is very dim, but he can see a curtain of red curls, and.
it had to happen eventually. he knows about the knives, from the reports from her agency and the old ones from his, the ones people pretend don't exist. and he remembers what she told him, one night when she started shaking while she slept and didn't stop for an hour after she woke.
he had been hoping, though.
"there's no cameras in here, you know," she says, a little while after he wakes. "no microphones either -- it's soundproofed, actually."
"oh, well, that's considerate," he says. what else could he say.
"i missed you after you 'ported out," she says, looking him in the eyes. she's sitting on the floor across from him, back against the wall, knees bent and ankles crossed, and she's been toying idly with her knives since she took up her spot there, a few seconds after she noticed he was awake.
"i missed you too," he says, honestly, looking at her right back, and tries to figure out how to properly convey i wished you were in my rooms, i wished i could keep you all to myself, i wished you never had to do any of this, i wished i had become a librarian and you'd been a patron and all we'd had to worry about were ridiculous overdue fines that i erased for you without actually saying any of it. "sometimes my heart ached," he says, without quite meaning to, and decides that'll have to do.
she smiles at him, just a tiny one, and looks down at the concrete floor again. "they're not going to let me out of here until you talk or i kill you, you know," she says, finally.
there's not really anything he can say to that. he looks away.
"do you believe in reincarnation?" she asks, shifting her head on his shoulder slightly. "in the specific sense, i mean. do you believe that our souls are destined to keep living forever, just in different bodies?"
"yes," he answers, after thinking for a few seconds, and then adjusts his hand on her hip. she'd let him go shortly after her admission, severing the ropes and moving the chair over to a corner. it's still a concrete floor, but she's keeping the one side of him warm, and it's insane but he's never been so reassured.
"how 'bout soulmates? do you think they exist?"
"yes," he says, without having to think at all. he squeezes her a little, and when she does the same to him he almost smiles.
"do you trust me?"
"yes."
"i love you, you know."
it's the first time she's said it to him, but he knows. has known.
"i know." pause. "i love you too, you know."
"i know." pause. "and you trust me?"
"always."
it doesn't happen quite as quickly as he'd hoped it would; just enough time to wrap his arms around her one last time, for her to do the same.
he closes his eyes. she kisses his cheek, and he wishes for things to be better, the next time around.
jack/nancy. hard r. posted mostly so that it's up somewhere and i can delete the file off my hard drive.
secret agent au. warning for character death.
"do you ever get the feeling," he says one morning, drinking coffee he shouldn't be having in a place he shouldn't be, "that somewhere else it's different?"
she grins, quick and easy, around the biscuit in her mouth, and shoves her red sheaf of curls off her shoulder. "everything's different everywhere else, dummy. otherwise everything would be the same, and what fun would that be?"
it's not treason, he tells himself, if she wasn't always on the wrong side.
different side.
other side.
(and he has his own opinions on that, at any rate; almost all the agents she'd known had left the agency very shortly after she herself left, and none of them of their own volition. and he's looked at her record from now, when he's had the chance and his connection wouldn't be traced. no fatalities. almost no casualties. her agency would probably say something to her if she wasn't so fucking good with her knives, and her lies, and damned if she doesn't get the job done just as well as anyone else could.)
and after all, the founding fathers of his country would've been convicted of high treason if it hadn't ended well. not that he's suffering under any delusions that he's doing anything so noble as all that, but it's reassuring, sometimes.
his rooms at headquarters used to be his favorite place -- he had them perfectly laid out, all the furniture was worn in just the way he liked it, there were some hideous plaids but he loved them even if nobody else understood them, and it was him.
now he sits on his bed, and stares at his handheld, and sighs.
he's starting to get a reputation. he's almost positive he is. people just keep trying to set him up, and of course he's polite and goes on the first date, and of course he's polite and gently quashes any idea of a second. or even a good-night kiss, close-mouthed or no.
it's a shitty idea to date an agent, anyway. it'd be like dating a co-worker, only nobody could ever really go home and get any space. that's the perfect setup for homicide, honestly, who's anyone trying to kid? no way for it to end but badly.
nobody ever reads it as anything but pigheadedness, though. and they continue to persist.
he hates it when missions go bad. oh, fucking hates it.
well, really, that ought to be obvious, but it's so tedious when it's not painful. ridiculous mind games, and insane posturing, and no, he's not going to give up any information, would he really be covered with scars the way he is if he had a tendency to spill? honestly. a little bit of thought would be nice.
but this time the room is dark (for now, anyway). and the chair is decent, tied to it though he is. and, well, he's exhausted. whoever it ends up being next will certainly wake him up before going to work on him, anyway. no sense doing anything without his full attention.
he wakes, and thinks he's still dreaming. it's been five months since the last time, it had been three since the time before, but he's never come across anyone else wearing that scent. distinctive, he remembers thinking, the first time he noticed it, and had deemed it appropriate.
then he opens his eyes, and the light is very dim, but he can see a curtain of red curls, and.
it had to happen eventually. he knows about the knives, from the reports from her agency and the old ones from his, the ones people pretend don't exist. and he remembers what she told him, one night when she started shaking while she slept and didn't stop for an hour after she woke.
he had been hoping, though.
"there's no cameras in here, you know," she says, a little while after he wakes. "no microphones either -- it's soundproofed, actually."
"oh, well, that's considerate," he says. what else could he say.
"i missed you after you 'ported out," she says, looking him in the eyes. she's sitting on the floor across from him, back against the wall, knees bent and ankles crossed, and she's been toying idly with her knives since she took up her spot there, a few seconds after she noticed he was awake.
"i missed you too," he says, honestly, looking at her right back, and tries to figure out how to properly convey i wished you were in my rooms, i wished i could keep you all to myself, i wished you never had to do any of this, i wished i had become a librarian and you'd been a patron and all we'd had to worry about were ridiculous overdue fines that i erased for you without actually saying any of it. "sometimes my heart ached," he says, without quite meaning to, and decides that'll have to do.
she smiles at him, just a tiny one, and looks down at the concrete floor again. "they're not going to let me out of here until you talk or i kill you, you know," she says, finally.
there's not really anything he can say to that. he looks away.
"do you believe in reincarnation?" she asks, shifting her head on his shoulder slightly. "in the specific sense, i mean. do you believe that our souls are destined to keep living forever, just in different bodies?"
"yes," he answers, after thinking for a few seconds, and then adjusts his hand on her hip. she'd let him go shortly after her admission, severing the ropes and moving the chair over to a corner. it's still a concrete floor, but she's keeping the one side of him warm, and it's insane but he's never been so reassured.
"how 'bout soulmates? do you think they exist?"
"yes," he says, without having to think at all. he squeezes her a little, and when she does the same to him he almost smiles.
"do you trust me?"
"yes."
"i love you, you know."
it's the first time she's said it to him, but he knows. has known.
"i know." pause. "i love you too, you know."
"i know." pause. "and you trust me?"
"always."
it doesn't happen quite as quickly as he'd hoped it would; just enough time to wrap his arms around her one last time, for her to do the same.
he closes his eyes. she kisses his cheek, and he wishes for things to be better, the next time around.