ain't no rest for the wicked {chuck - casey/sarah}
Title: Ain't No Rest For The Wicked
Fandom: Chuck
Characters/Pairings: Casey/Sarah.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,651
Author's Note: For gigglemonster. AU. I really don't know what this is. I just hope it's enjoyable.
Summary: The numbers flip and change. Maybe they belong behind the counter of a convenience store, your total ma'am, now hand over the cash. Maybe they belong on someone's record, black ink, the word body count, a job well done and a pat on the back. The road stretches out ahead of them.
Sixty miles outside of Memphis, they stop at a gas station.
He fills up the tank and she darts inside for water, coffee, and gum. She throws in a book of matches at the last minute, pockets them before she walks back to the car. It’s red, a convertible, and Casey hates it. It gets shitty gas mileage and it’s not tricked out as either of their cars, but it serves its purpose just fine.
The numbers on the display flip and change as the tank fills and he scans her purchases with a two-second glance.
Sarah pops a piece of gum in her mouth and straightens the baseball cap on her head. Her shorts are khaki and shorter than she’d like but there are two separate changes of clothes in the backseat and that’s far from the only thing not going her way.
“Gum?” She climbs inside the car. “You anticipating something?”
She catches the raised eyebrow, holds his gaze as she asks, “How are your wrists?”
Casey glares but doesn’t so much as acknowledge the red that circles them, rubbed raw.
It was a rhetorical question anyway.
The numbers stop, tank full, and he digs cash out of his wallet. No credit cards, nothing traceable. They were never here or anywhere else for that matter.
Her gaze flicks to the man behind the counter inside, clear as day through the window; he’s got another customer inside, a young man, and Sarah takes advantage of their momentary distraction to pull the release on the glove box, taking stock of what’s inside. Or, more specifically, what isn’t. “Casey?”
He takes his sweet time counting out exact change, looking up after an annoying interval; she pulls it all the way open. He shoves his wallet back in his pocket, unaffected. “There’s a case in the trunk. Guns and silencers. Aren’t you armed?”
“I’ve got a knife.” She can feel it dig against her back if she moves wrong in her seat. Casey doesn’t look like he’s buying what she’s selling, which is unfortunate because she isn’t messing with him. “Where? Thigh holsters don’t really work with these.”
When she shows him the expanse of her leg, for effect, foot propped up on the dashboard, he smirks. She rolls her eyes. Men have it easy. No one cares how much skin he’s showing and she knows Casey doesn’t go anywhere without at least two guns on him.
“So that’s all?” She tries to keep any sense of disappointment out of her voice.
“No fancy toys, Walker,” he sounds at least a little dismayed. Or maybe bitter. Definitely bitter when he adds, “That’s what we get for showing Beckman that we know how to improvise.”
“From art auctions to diners. Go figure.”
-
On the highway, empty stretch of road, he puts the top up.
It’s her cue and she unhooks her seatbelt and crawls over the console and into the backseat with minor struggle. His elbow hits the back of her thigh accidentally and she’s fairly sure that if he looked to his right at a certain moment he could’ve seen straight down her shirt but so the fuck what.
Nothing he hasn’t seen before.
She pulls her tank top off before she’s even through digging through the bag, tossing it in the seat next to her and pulling out the white flowy top that mirrors the one she used to have to wear to the Wienerlicious on a daily basis. It isn’t see-through in the light and it’ll work to disguise any weapons.
Switching shorts, khaki to denim, thankfully with an extra inch or two of fabric to them, always proves interesting when doing so in the back of a car. She glances at the rearview mirror as she’s doing up the zipper but finds he isn’t looking at her, eyes on the road.
Sarah slides a knife into the heel of her shoe, tricked out stilettos that Carina was crazy about, and brings them and herself up front. This time he glances as she’s pulling down the visor and pulling her hair out of a ponytail simultaneously. She parts her hair, only half needing the mirror for guidance she’s done this so many times, then pulls her into low pigtails.
He chuckles but there’s an edge to it, mocking.
“Don’t,” she says, without malice. “They make me look younger. Younger equals innocent.”
Casey’s far too amused for his own good. Or for her liking.
“Only problem is the younger I look,” she pulls them tight, “the older you look.”
He grunts, annoyed but not about to vocalize it. Yet.
“I mean you did play Carina’s uncle.”
“Much younger uncle.”
“Right,” she draws the word out, bending to slide her shoes on and double checking to make sure the knife is secure. Then she switches topics completely. It only just so happens that she gets the last word on this. “We’ve covered all our bases?”
He spares a glance at the clock on the dash and speeds up in reaction. They’re a little off schedule. “It’s not like we’re new at this,” he replies, which means yes. She breathes in, out, blames her restlessness on the long drive.
“No,” she glances in the rearview mirror. “Pull over.”
Even as he’s doing so, he asks, “Why?”
“Because I don’t have a gun and I don’t think waiting until we get there to gear up is the best course of action.”
“Point.”
-
She was being literal about the diner.
They get there five after noon. It only takes a minute to locate their target and they take the booth in the opposite corner, on an angle that has Sarah looking right at Olin Hewitt, formerly of San Francisco, currently of wherever the hell there isn’t a warrant out for him. They think he’s planning a meeting with some guys for a discussion that would involve the words ‘nuclear’ and ‘arms’, and they think he’s got something to do with some weapons popping up in unsavory places and unsavory hands.
Think doesn’t get you a warrant and it doesn’t get you a guilty verdict, but it does get you two well trained agents and the federal government, which doesn’t play nearly as nice as local LEOs do.
Her legs move underneath the table and she keeps one leg against Casey’s, her fingers grazing his on the table every now and then. They both make a show of looking at the menus, of ordering, but more than half the food will go untouched and the coffee the waitress serves is absolutely toxic.
This is a waiting game, not a pleasant lunch between a friendly couple.
They are not a friendly couple. Casey isn’t even nice to people when he doesn’t have to be ninety percent of the time and neither is she when focused on a target, a job. They’re not a couple, at least not in any definition of the word other than that which indicates two people.
They’re partners.
Never mind that he spent at least part of last night tied to a headboard in a hotel room in Arkansas, with her in nothing but black lace underwear and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged but holding strong.
Most days she tries not to think about those things.
It takes twenty minutes and a lot of luck but Olin finally rises from his seat, leaving his table unoccupied as he navigates his way to the bathroom in the back of the diner.
She tries to not be obvious when she breathes a sigh of a relief.
The waiting is the hard part.
“I’ll be back,” Casey says, reaching into his pocket for something as he gets up and follows the same path Olin took to the bathroom. She watches him pause for the barest of moments by the man’s table, something fluttering to surface as he does, and she glances at the waitress and the man behind the counter to make sure that they hadn’t seen it. Both are occupied, busy with other patrons or on the phone.
She squints her eyes and realizes he dropped cash on the table, probably enough to cover the meal and the tip, at least what he estimates that to be. Olin isn’t coming back and it’s better if the employees just think he left while they had their backs turned. It’s more plausible.
Sarah tries to eat and keep her eyes off the door that leads to the men’s room; it’s an uphill battle.
-
Seven minutes later, almost to the second, Casey slides back into the booth.
There’s a cut along his arm and the right side of his face is faintly red but it’s only noticeable because she’s checking for injuries. She covers her concern with a smile.
“You know, sweetheart,” she dabs at her mouth with her napkin, acutely aware that their waitress is within earshot, “I was wondering if you ever got in touch with that friend of yours?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “He said he’d get back to me.”
She nods, message received. The waitress passes by their table, asks if they need anything, and she makes a big show of smiling, telling her they’re good, and then turning to face Casey with her elbow poised just right to hit her glass. Nothing breaks but she spills ice tea on her shorts. As spills go, it’s controlled, only soaks the cuff of one leg. “Shit,” she hisses, standing up and pressing a napkin to the seat to soak up some of the liquid.
The waitress rushes back over after a moment, this time with a towel in hand. “I’ll get that,” she says, waving her off, “You should go clean up; thank god it wasn’t red wine.”
“Small favors,” Sarah replies, wiping her hands and keeping her face fairly neutral, hiding the smile that springs to her lips. That couldn’t have worked any better if she tried. “Thanks.”
-
Olin’s having a far worse day than she is.
She bypasses the women’s restroom in favor of the men’s and checks the feet under the door. The diner’s fairly empty today, just them, Olin, a family of four, and an elderly couple. Every single stall is empty, except for the handicapped one, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s behind the door.
The photos they were given didn’t do Olin justice. He had to be all of five foot eight, slight and skinny as a rail. It’s far more likely that the red mark on Casey’s cheek was due to Olin landing a slap rather than a punch, she decides, and that’s all but confirmed when she opens the door to the stall, locking it behind her.
He’s handcuffed to a metal rail along one of the walls of the stall, and Olin might be pulling but it doesn’t look like it’s anywhere close to giving and letting him free.
“Mr. Hewitt,” she greets, and she can tell that altogether quells any urge he might have had to ask for her help. There was maybe a second or two there where she could’ve just been some ditzy southern girl who wandered into the wrong stall. When she leans against the side of the stall just right, the hem of her shirt lifts an inch and he gets a glimpse of her gun. Something in his eyes changes.
“I’ll scream,” Olin says, quickly, and forget straining against the handcuffs, he’s now flailing his legs in every which direction. She maintains a distance that’s just outside of his reach and, honestly, if he thinks she won’t break his leg to get him to stop, he’s wrong. It’s not like he’ll need the leg, she thinks, for the briefest of moments. And then regrets it.
She is a killer but she isn’t cold-blooded. Not yet.
“I swear, I’ll scream, and then you’ll be the one in trouble.”
“No, you won’t.”
-
Sarah doesn’t quite match Casey’s time.
Then again, she doesn’t check the clock either so there’s no proof of that. He’s on his phone when she strolls out, leisurely pace, and her shorts are mostly dry by now, though she hadn’t bothered with trying to clean them.
The waitress gives her a warm smile and Sarah tries not to notice that Olin’s table has been cleared already. In his place now sits what appears to be a truck driver, big and burly, his eyes on the ass of every woman who passes into his sight line.
Including hers.
Casey notices. At least that’s what she thinks the half-growl that comes from low in the back of his throat is about. She sits down at the same time as he sets the phone down.
“Got in touch with our friend,” he says, not being quite as careful with the wording of this particular conversation. The waitress is across the diner from them, attending to the elderly couple by now.
Their ‘friend’ is the clean up crew in the form of a health inspector, who will inevitably find some code violation that requires the removal of the patrons as well as the staff to ‘correct a problem’. Because as it stands Olin is still alive, but they’ve only just completed step two of a three step plan.
Step three gets initiated as she leans in close, elbows on the table providing the necessary leverage to close the space between them, her mouth on his. It’s a quick kiss, soft and unlike them. Their kisses are rough and unchoreographed, the heat of the moment kind, teeth and tongue and the pull of hands on clothes. This is a show.
“Your turn,” she murmurs, half into his mouth, and pulls away with a wry grin that doesn’t fit the situation at all.
At least not internally.
-
Three minutes later, Olin’s dead.
She knows from the nod, from the purposeful way that Casey carries himself back to the table. He shells out the cash for the food, and Sarah thanks their waitress as her hand slips into Casey’s and they walk out.
They’re pulling out of the small parking lot when the health inspector is pulling in.
“We good?” She asks, looking over her shoulder until the diner fades into view.
“Did you get anything out of him?”
“Depends on if you consider the time and location of the meeting he won’t be attending something, as well as the names of his buyers.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “It didn’t take much to get him to talk.”
“I’ll bet.”
-
In Lexington, they kill the engine and check in at a Marriot for the night.
They use his laptop to connect with Beckman, who’s all about telling them it was a job well done. Sarah tells her everything she knows about Olin while Casey cleans his gun meticulously, and then Beckman says she’ll be in touch, which means another mission isn’t all that far off.
They’re going to have to bust up Olin’s meeting, which means turning around and heading back over the state line into Tennessee, but they already knew that.
“I miss Burbank,” she says, after she’s showered and crawled into bed. The mattress is lumpy and the comforter has a rather offending pattern, but the A/C works and she’s more tired than she is restless.
The light in the bathroom is still on, a faint yellow glow in the darkness of the room, and she can hear the water in the sink running. She thinks he’s brushing his teeth.
For an instant, she thinks it’s fallen on deaf ears.
It ventures too close to the emotional for them anyways.
Then she hears him rinse and spit, the water turn off, and then his voice, strong and more startling than she’d admit. “Never thought I’d agree with you, Walker.”
Sarah never thought she’d be saying it.
So that makes two of them.
-
fin.
Fandom: Chuck
Characters/Pairings: Casey/Sarah.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,651
Author's Note: For gigglemonster. AU. I really don't know what this is. I just hope it's enjoyable.
Summary: The numbers flip and change. Maybe they belong behind the counter of a convenience store, your total ma'am, now hand over the cash. Maybe they belong on someone's record, black ink, the word body count, a job well done and a pat on the back. The road stretches out ahead of them.
Sixty miles outside of Memphis, they stop at a gas station.
He fills up the tank and she darts inside for water, coffee, and gum. She throws in a book of matches at the last minute, pockets them before she walks back to the car. It’s red, a convertible, and Casey hates it. It gets shitty gas mileage and it’s not tricked out as either of their cars, but it serves its purpose just fine.
The numbers on the display flip and change as the tank fills and he scans her purchases with a two-second glance.
Sarah pops a piece of gum in her mouth and straightens the baseball cap on her head. Her shorts are khaki and shorter than she’d like but there are two separate changes of clothes in the backseat and that’s far from the only thing not going her way.
“Gum?” She climbs inside the car. “You anticipating something?”
She catches the raised eyebrow, holds his gaze as she asks, “How are your wrists?”
Casey glares but doesn’t so much as acknowledge the red that circles them, rubbed raw.
It was a rhetorical question anyway.
The numbers stop, tank full, and he digs cash out of his wallet. No credit cards, nothing traceable. They were never here or anywhere else for that matter.
Her gaze flicks to the man behind the counter inside, clear as day through the window; he’s got another customer inside, a young man, and Sarah takes advantage of their momentary distraction to pull the release on the glove box, taking stock of what’s inside. Or, more specifically, what isn’t. “Casey?”
He takes his sweet time counting out exact change, looking up after an annoying interval; she pulls it all the way open. He shoves his wallet back in his pocket, unaffected. “There’s a case in the trunk. Guns and silencers. Aren’t you armed?”
“I’ve got a knife.” She can feel it dig against her back if she moves wrong in her seat. Casey doesn’t look like he’s buying what she’s selling, which is unfortunate because she isn’t messing with him. “Where? Thigh holsters don’t really work with these.”
When she shows him the expanse of her leg, for effect, foot propped up on the dashboard, he smirks. She rolls her eyes. Men have it easy. No one cares how much skin he’s showing and she knows Casey doesn’t go anywhere without at least two guns on him.
“So that’s all?” She tries to keep any sense of disappointment out of her voice.
“No fancy toys, Walker,” he sounds at least a little dismayed. Or maybe bitter. Definitely bitter when he adds, “That’s what we get for showing Beckman that we know how to improvise.”
“From art auctions to diners. Go figure.”
-
On the highway, empty stretch of road, he puts the top up.
It’s her cue and she unhooks her seatbelt and crawls over the console and into the backseat with minor struggle. His elbow hits the back of her thigh accidentally and she’s fairly sure that if he looked to his right at a certain moment he could’ve seen straight down her shirt but so the fuck what.
Nothing he hasn’t seen before.
She pulls her tank top off before she’s even through digging through the bag, tossing it in the seat next to her and pulling out the white flowy top that mirrors the one she used to have to wear to the Wienerlicious on a daily basis. It isn’t see-through in the light and it’ll work to disguise any weapons.
Switching shorts, khaki to denim, thankfully with an extra inch or two of fabric to them, always proves interesting when doing so in the back of a car. She glances at the rearview mirror as she’s doing up the zipper but finds he isn’t looking at her, eyes on the road.
Sarah slides a knife into the heel of her shoe, tricked out stilettos that Carina was crazy about, and brings them and herself up front. This time he glances as she’s pulling down the visor and pulling her hair out of a ponytail simultaneously. She parts her hair, only half needing the mirror for guidance she’s done this so many times, then pulls her into low pigtails.
He chuckles but there’s an edge to it, mocking.
“Don’t,” she says, without malice. “They make me look younger. Younger equals innocent.”
Casey’s far too amused for his own good. Or for her liking.
“Only problem is the younger I look,” she pulls them tight, “the older you look.”
He grunts, annoyed but not about to vocalize it. Yet.
“I mean you did play Carina’s uncle.”
“Much younger uncle.”
“Right,” she draws the word out, bending to slide her shoes on and double checking to make sure the knife is secure. Then she switches topics completely. It only just so happens that she gets the last word on this. “We’ve covered all our bases?”
He spares a glance at the clock on the dash and speeds up in reaction. They’re a little off schedule. “It’s not like we’re new at this,” he replies, which means yes. She breathes in, out, blames her restlessness on the long drive.
“No,” she glances in the rearview mirror. “Pull over.”
Even as he’s doing so, he asks, “Why?”
“Because I don’t have a gun and I don’t think waiting until we get there to gear up is the best course of action.”
“Point.”
-
She was being literal about the diner.
They get there five after noon. It only takes a minute to locate their target and they take the booth in the opposite corner, on an angle that has Sarah looking right at Olin Hewitt, formerly of San Francisco, currently of wherever the hell there isn’t a warrant out for him. They think he’s planning a meeting with some guys for a discussion that would involve the words ‘nuclear’ and ‘arms’, and they think he’s got something to do with some weapons popping up in unsavory places and unsavory hands.
Think doesn’t get you a warrant and it doesn’t get you a guilty verdict, but it does get you two well trained agents and the federal government, which doesn’t play nearly as nice as local LEOs do.
Her legs move underneath the table and she keeps one leg against Casey’s, her fingers grazing his on the table every now and then. They both make a show of looking at the menus, of ordering, but more than half the food will go untouched and the coffee the waitress serves is absolutely toxic.
This is a waiting game, not a pleasant lunch between a friendly couple.
They are not a friendly couple. Casey isn’t even nice to people when he doesn’t have to be ninety percent of the time and neither is she when focused on a target, a job. They’re not a couple, at least not in any definition of the word other than that which indicates two people.
They’re partners.
Never mind that he spent at least part of last night tied to a headboard in a hotel room in Arkansas, with her in nothing but black lace underwear and yesterday’s eyeliner smudged but holding strong.
Most days she tries not to think about those things.
It takes twenty minutes and a lot of luck but Olin finally rises from his seat, leaving his table unoccupied as he navigates his way to the bathroom in the back of the diner.
She tries to not be obvious when she breathes a sigh of a relief.
The waiting is the hard part.
“I’ll be back,” Casey says, reaching into his pocket for something as he gets up and follows the same path Olin took to the bathroom. She watches him pause for the barest of moments by the man’s table, something fluttering to surface as he does, and she glances at the waitress and the man behind the counter to make sure that they hadn’t seen it. Both are occupied, busy with other patrons or on the phone.
She squints her eyes and realizes he dropped cash on the table, probably enough to cover the meal and the tip, at least what he estimates that to be. Olin isn’t coming back and it’s better if the employees just think he left while they had their backs turned. It’s more plausible.
Sarah tries to eat and keep her eyes off the door that leads to the men’s room; it’s an uphill battle.
-
Seven minutes later, almost to the second, Casey slides back into the booth.
There’s a cut along his arm and the right side of his face is faintly red but it’s only noticeable because she’s checking for injuries. She covers her concern with a smile.
“You know, sweetheart,” she dabs at her mouth with her napkin, acutely aware that their waitress is within earshot, “I was wondering if you ever got in touch with that friend of yours?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “He said he’d get back to me.”
She nods, message received. The waitress passes by their table, asks if they need anything, and she makes a big show of smiling, telling her they’re good, and then turning to face Casey with her elbow poised just right to hit her glass. Nothing breaks but she spills ice tea on her shorts. As spills go, it’s controlled, only soaks the cuff of one leg. “Shit,” she hisses, standing up and pressing a napkin to the seat to soak up some of the liquid.
The waitress rushes back over after a moment, this time with a towel in hand. “I’ll get that,” she says, waving her off, “You should go clean up; thank god it wasn’t red wine.”
“Small favors,” Sarah replies, wiping her hands and keeping her face fairly neutral, hiding the smile that springs to her lips. That couldn’t have worked any better if she tried. “Thanks.”
-
Olin’s having a far worse day than she is.
She bypasses the women’s restroom in favor of the men’s and checks the feet under the door. The diner’s fairly empty today, just them, Olin, a family of four, and an elderly couple. Every single stall is empty, except for the handicapped one, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s behind the door.
The photos they were given didn’t do Olin justice. He had to be all of five foot eight, slight and skinny as a rail. It’s far more likely that the red mark on Casey’s cheek was due to Olin landing a slap rather than a punch, she decides, and that’s all but confirmed when she opens the door to the stall, locking it behind her.
He’s handcuffed to a metal rail along one of the walls of the stall, and Olin might be pulling but it doesn’t look like it’s anywhere close to giving and letting him free.
“Mr. Hewitt,” she greets, and she can tell that altogether quells any urge he might have had to ask for her help. There was maybe a second or two there where she could’ve just been some ditzy southern girl who wandered into the wrong stall. When she leans against the side of the stall just right, the hem of her shirt lifts an inch and he gets a glimpse of her gun. Something in his eyes changes.
“I’ll scream,” Olin says, quickly, and forget straining against the handcuffs, he’s now flailing his legs in every which direction. She maintains a distance that’s just outside of his reach and, honestly, if he thinks she won’t break his leg to get him to stop, he’s wrong. It’s not like he’ll need the leg, she thinks, for the briefest of moments. And then regrets it.
She is a killer but she isn’t cold-blooded. Not yet.
“I swear, I’ll scream, and then you’ll be the one in trouble.”
“No, you won’t.”
-
Sarah doesn’t quite match Casey’s time.
Then again, she doesn’t check the clock either so there’s no proof of that. He’s on his phone when she strolls out, leisurely pace, and her shorts are mostly dry by now, though she hadn’t bothered with trying to clean them.
The waitress gives her a warm smile and Sarah tries not to notice that Olin’s table has been cleared already. In his place now sits what appears to be a truck driver, big and burly, his eyes on the ass of every woman who passes into his sight line.
Including hers.
Casey notices. At least that’s what she thinks the half-growl that comes from low in the back of his throat is about. She sits down at the same time as he sets the phone down.
“Got in touch with our friend,” he says, not being quite as careful with the wording of this particular conversation. The waitress is across the diner from them, attending to the elderly couple by now.
Their ‘friend’ is the clean up crew in the form of a health inspector, who will inevitably find some code violation that requires the removal of the patrons as well as the staff to ‘correct a problem’. Because as it stands Olin is still alive, but they’ve only just completed step two of a three step plan.
Step three gets initiated as she leans in close, elbows on the table providing the necessary leverage to close the space between them, her mouth on his. It’s a quick kiss, soft and unlike them. Their kisses are rough and unchoreographed, the heat of the moment kind, teeth and tongue and the pull of hands on clothes. This is a show.
“Your turn,” she murmurs, half into his mouth, and pulls away with a wry grin that doesn’t fit the situation at all.
At least not internally.
-
Three minutes later, Olin’s dead.
She knows from the nod, from the purposeful way that Casey carries himself back to the table. He shells out the cash for the food, and Sarah thanks their waitress as her hand slips into Casey’s and they walk out.
They’re pulling out of the small parking lot when the health inspector is pulling in.
“We good?” She asks, looking over her shoulder until the diner fades into view.
“Did you get anything out of him?”
“Depends on if you consider the time and location of the meeting he won’t be attending something, as well as the names of his buyers.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “It didn’t take much to get him to talk.”
“I’ll bet.”
-
In Lexington, they kill the engine and check in at a Marriot for the night.
They use his laptop to connect with Beckman, who’s all about telling them it was a job well done. Sarah tells her everything she knows about Olin while Casey cleans his gun meticulously, and then Beckman says she’ll be in touch, which means another mission isn’t all that far off.
They’re going to have to bust up Olin’s meeting, which means turning around and heading back over the state line into Tennessee, but they already knew that.
“I miss Burbank,” she says, after she’s showered and crawled into bed. The mattress is lumpy and the comforter has a rather offending pattern, but the A/C works and she’s more tired than she is restless.
The light in the bathroom is still on, a faint yellow glow in the darkness of the room, and she can hear the water in the sink running. She thinks he’s brushing his teeth.
For an instant, she thinks it’s fallen on deaf ears.
It ventures too close to the emotional for them anyways.
Then she hears him rinse and spit, the water turn off, and then his voice, strong and more startling than she’d admit. “Never thought I’d agree with you, Walker.”
Sarah never thought she’d be saying it.
So that makes two of them.
-
fin.