The Long Black Fall
Title: The Long Black Fall
Pairing: Jenna/Kono
Rating: NC-17
Length: 935 words
Spoilers: For 1x19, Na Me e Launa Na Paio
Warnings: Sexy sexing sex, and also, sex.
Disclaimer: None of these people belong to me!
Summary: Jenna's quest for Wo Fat drives her to the edge. Kono knows how to bring her back.
Jenna is so close to a breakthrough. One of Wo Fat's closest Yakuza contacts has been communicating with a highly placed FSB agent. For months they've been sending messages back and forth, but Jenna hasn't found any links between the dates of their communications and any Japanese or Russian assassinations, acts of terrorism, large business deals, anything. From the information she's actually got, they might be planning an international team-up to take down their respective governments, or they might be placing bets on next year's Olympics. It's inconclusive. But she knows Wo Fat, as well as anyone can know Wo Fat, and this just smells like him.
"You've been here all night," a voice says from the doorway. Kono's voice. Jenna's hand slips on the computer screen and Ruslan Dityatev's mugshot lands in a folder full of transcontinental travel itineraries.
"Uh, yeah," Jenna says, "I don't know. What time is it?"
"It's almost four," Kono says. She's weirdly quiet, her boots on the tile almost louder than her voice. She crosses the office, slowly. Jenna sorts out the misplaced file and reopens the spreadsheet she's made to cross-reference the coded messages with potentially linked Yakuza and FSB actions. She has a system, she has a million systems, but it's harder than she thought to re-implement them all on an unfamiliar machine, without CIA resources or software. She's barely halfway down the list.
"What is it?" Kono asks, from just behind Jenna's left ear. She's very still, very gentle, and Jenna hears her own fingertips jitterbugging on the edge of the computer. She knows it's not a table but the temptation to use it as one is sometimes overwhelming.
"Just cross-referencing," Jenna says. "You know. Boring analysis. Spreadsheets."
"Wo Fat," Kono says. As close as they are--Kono's skin giving off heat like brick after a sunny day--Jenna knows her body's sudden tension must be obvious. She takes a deep breath in, then out, rolls her shoulders up-back-down, the only thing she's held onto from long-ago grief counseling.
"Yeah," she says. "He's involved with the Russians somehow, I know it. None of my colleagues took the evidence seriously. But now that I'm here, I thought--you guys go chasing after crazy leads all the time, so--"
"No judgment here," Kono says. "You do what you have to do." Her right hand settles on Jenna's hip, fingers fluttering against the denim, then slides across to the button of her jeans. Jenna's belly coils with something intense, black and slick as gasoline. They've done this before, a few times, in Jenna's hotel room, without ever talking about what it means for them or for work. But never like this. Never in the office, never without kissing or even looking at each other, never with Jenna's head in the hunter place.
Kono flicks the button, pulls down the zip, and tugs Jenna's jeans down around her thighs just far enough to reach in but not so far she can't spread her legs. Kono's boots knock at the insteps of Jenna's sneakers, asking and not asking. She widens her stance in answer.
"Shhh," Kono says. Her left hand lands on Jenna's, against the edge of the computer. Her right slides down and in, the heel of her hand wedged in where Jenna can't help but rock against it. The wire of her body presses at Jenna from all sides until she feels spread and pinned, caged and split open. Kono's skin is dark against Jenna's pale cold hand and hot through the fabric of her boy shorts. Kono's hips twitch restlessly against Jenna's ass, the crumple of her jeans, so Jenna starts to rock. She rocks rocks rocks while her glasses slide down her nose and she falls forward, forearms flat on the screen, files flashing and dancing under her hands.
"Shhh," Kono says again. "It's okay. It's okay." Jenna feels a harsh and feral want building. She drops her head between her shoulders and moans. The glasses slip further and further and the arms dig in behind her ears as she squeezes Kono's hand between her thighs and comes, shuddering, blinking blindly at the fierce tattooed faces of five Yakuza-connected Russian assassins.
Jenna gasps for air. "Oh," she says, "oh, god." Kono's rough fingers stroke her gently, wetly, and then settle on the soft mound of her pelvic bone. Her thumb worries tenderly at the line of Jenna's pubic hair. Kono has a trail there, pointing sweetly upward to her belly button, a soft black arrow Jenna suddenly wants to see so badly she almost turns and rips Kono's shorts off, but Kono is holding her firmly with a touch that says shhh, quiet, don't move. So Jenna doesn't. She breathes. She lets Kono resettle her jeans and fasten them, cup her palm around the curve of Jenna's belly. She lets her weight shift backward and drops her head against Kono's shoulder.
"Come home with me," Kono says. "Get some sleep."
Kono's apartment is small. It smells salty, and like rain, even with the windows closed. Kono cracks the one by the bed, though. It's quiet enough in this neighborhood, and besides, Jenna's bones are hollow with exhaustion. Nothing could keep her awake now. She shucks her jeans, snakes her bra out through the sleeves of her t-shirt, and slips into Kono's rumpled bed. Her mind is blank. She sleeps, waking once to feel Kono's head settle on her shoulder, one arm fall solidly over her ribs. She kisses Kono's hair. She smells the hot earth musk there, and then she sleeps again, a long black fall that lasts until morning.
Pairing: Jenna/Kono
Rating: NC-17
Length: 935 words
Spoilers: For 1x19, Na Me e Launa Na Paio
Warnings: Sexy sexing sex, and also, sex.
Disclaimer: None of these people belong to me!
Summary: Jenna's quest for Wo Fat drives her to the edge. Kono knows how to bring her back.
Jenna is so close to a breakthrough. One of Wo Fat's closest Yakuza contacts has been communicating with a highly placed FSB agent. For months they've been sending messages back and forth, but Jenna hasn't found any links between the dates of their communications and any Japanese or Russian assassinations, acts of terrorism, large business deals, anything. From the information she's actually got, they might be planning an international team-up to take down their respective governments, or they might be placing bets on next year's Olympics. It's inconclusive. But she knows Wo Fat, as well as anyone can know Wo Fat, and this just smells like him.
"You've been here all night," a voice says from the doorway. Kono's voice. Jenna's hand slips on the computer screen and Ruslan Dityatev's mugshot lands in a folder full of transcontinental travel itineraries.
"Uh, yeah," Jenna says, "I don't know. What time is it?"
"It's almost four," Kono says. She's weirdly quiet, her boots on the tile almost louder than her voice. She crosses the office, slowly. Jenna sorts out the misplaced file and reopens the spreadsheet she's made to cross-reference the coded messages with potentially linked Yakuza and FSB actions. She has a system, she has a million systems, but it's harder than she thought to re-implement them all on an unfamiliar machine, without CIA resources or software. She's barely halfway down the list.
"What is it?" Kono asks, from just behind Jenna's left ear. She's very still, very gentle, and Jenna hears her own fingertips jitterbugging on the edge of the computer. She knows it's not a table but the temptation to use it as one is sometimes overwhelming.
"Just cross-referencing," Jenna says. "You know. Boring analysis. Spreadsheets."
"Wo Fat," Kono says. As close as they are--Kono's skin giving off heat like brick after a sunny day--Jenna knows her body's sudden tension must be obvious. She takes a deep breath in, then out, rolls her shoulders up-back-down, the only thing she's held onto from long-ago grief counseling.
"Yeah," she says. "He's involved with the Russians somehow, I know it. None of my colleagues took the evidence seriously. But now that I'm here, I thought--you guys go chasing after crazy leads all the time, so--"
"No judgment here," Kono says. "You do what you have to do." Her right hand settles on Jenna's hip, fingers fluttering against the denim, then slides across to the button of her jeans. Jenna's belly coils with something intense, black and slick as gasoline. They've done this before, a few times, in Jenna's hotel room, without ever talking about what it means for them or for work. But never like this. Never in the office, never without kissing or even looking at each other, never with Jenna's head in the hunter place.
Kono flicks the button, pulls down the zip, and tugs Jenna's jeans down around her thighs just far enough to reach in but not so far she can't spread her legs. Kono's boots knock at the insteps of Jenna's sneakers, asking and not asking. She widens her stance in answer.
"Shhh," Kono says. Her left hand lands on Jenna's, against the edge of the computer. Her right slides down and in, the heel of her hand wedged in where Jenna can't help but rock against it. The wire of her body presses at Jenna from all sides until she feels spread and pinned, caged and split open. Kono's skin is dark against Jenna's pale cold hand and hot through the fabric of her boy shorts. Kono's hips twitch restlessly against Jenna's ass, the crumple of her jeans, so Jenna starts to rock. She rocks rocks rocks while her glasses slide down her nose and she falls forward, forearms flat on the screen, files flashing and dancing under her hands.
"Shhh," Kono says again. "It's okay. It's okay." Jenna feels a harsh and feral want building. She drops her head between her shoulders and moans. The glasses slip further and further and the arms dig in behind her ears as she squeezes Kono's hand between her thighs and comes, shuddering, blinking blindly at the fierce tattooed faces of five Yakuza-connected Russian assassins.
Jenna gasps for air. "Oh," she says, "oh, god." Kono's rough fingers stroke her gently, wetly, and then settle on the soft mound of her pelvic bone. Her thumb worries tenderly at the line of Jenna's pubic hair. Kono has a trail there, pointing sweetly upward to her belly button, a soft black arrow Jenna suddenly wants to see so badly she almost turns and rips Kono's shorts off, but Kono is holding her firmly with a touch that says shhh, quiet, don't move. So Jenna doesn't. She breathes. She lets Kono resettle her jeans and fasten them, cup her palm around the curve of Jenna's belly. She lets her weight shift backward and drops her head against Kono's shoulder.
"Come home with me," Kono says. "Get some sleep."
Kono's apartment is small. It smells salty, and like rain, even with the windows closed. Kono cracks the one by the bed, though. It's quiet enough in this neighborhood, and besides, Jenna's bones are hollow with exhaustion. Nothing could keep her awake now. She shucks her jeans, snakes her bra out through the sleeves of her t-shirt, and slips into Kono's rumpled bed. Her mind is blank. She sleeps, waking once to feel Kono's head settle on her shoulder, one arm fall solidly over her ribs. She kisses Kono's hair. She smells the hot earth musk there, and then she sleeps again, a long black fall that lasts until morning.