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Jan 21, 2025

[✮] the politics of dancing — wendy x reader

[𖤐] 1/1 [please be aware this is all fiction! none of this is real and idols behavior is not accurately represented.]

song(s): enjoy the silence - depeche mode | the politics of dancing - the reflex | cities in dust - siouxsie and the banshees | there is a light that never goes out - the smiths | love is a battlefield - pat benatar

summary: you’re told to find the man who killed your partner— husband, to you, but your superiors had no idea. You’re told to collect information on all KGB agents, and while you will, you’re far more focused on killing the man who took away the man you loved. and yet, there’s this woman you keep seeing. who the hell is she?

pairing: cia!reader x csis!wendy

tags: set in 1989 cold war era berlin, they’re spies, angst, it was the cold war ok, angst with a happy ending

wc: 6k

cw: blood, weapons (guns, etc), smoking, violence, death, sexual themes

ex: reader has a dead husband, pls listen to the songs in order.. PLEASEEEE.. they’re so good. c/n stands for code name, it’s not a code name like badger but more like a fake full name. Like Nicole Elizabeth Mintz. just think of a fake name lol

a/n: this is inspired by atomic blonde

September in Berlin was cold. Not horribly so, but enough to need a coat due to the weather. It was roughly 48 degrees, and your breath could be seen in the air, the vapor made even more noticeable by the streetlights. The cigarette between your fingers helped to fight off the chill, as you took a drag and exhaled. The warmth settled in your stomach, as you gazed up from where you were previously looking.

it was imperative to stay alert, to stay vigilant. Especially now.

You had a job to do. You were here to collect a list full of formation on KGB members— their names, what they’ve done, how long they’ve been working— it’s essential for the CIA.

but you want to find someone, specifically. The man responsible for killing your previous partner.

it was complicated, to be frank. There was a man— you had been told his name was Pyotr. His last name, at this moment, was unknown.

He was believed to be hiding out in West Berlin, passing along information to his comrades in East Berlin. There was the issue of the wall, of course, but you were sure you’d figure it out.

you had to.

for him.

September 14th, 1989

“He’s dead,” was the very blank, monotone way you were informed that your husband, your partner— was dead. You had only been working at the CIA for about seven months, at that point. You were told this news by your superior, and it was almost like he wasn’t surprised.

Death haunted this building. Dead agents, dead enemies, dead civilians— morality was no where to be seen, too. You can’t claim to be the good guys and stoop to the same level as everyone else.

but all you can think at that moment is— dead? he can’t be dead. He’s coming home, in a few days. We were going to go, together, our next job— but he’s dead. your superior, everybody calls him Badger— he’s an older southern man, gives you a barely sympathetic look. He’s not a monster, you know. He just can’t afford to feel for every death. It’d kill him.

“He was a good man, y/n,” is what he offers.

“I know,” is the only thing you can manage. There’s not much else to say.

September 15th, 1989

You were deployed to Berlin three days later.

the first thing you notice is that it’s cold. It’s not unbearable— not like Moscow, or any of the rest of Eastern Europe, but cold enough. You didn’t love the cold, truth be told.

The plane ride had been long. You were given a new name, which was only natural— c/n. A new hair color, a new passport— and you took completely new clothes in your suitcase. Getting off the plane, and out of the airport— you see your contact.

Your handler was another man— god, it was like you never saw a woman in these places— he says his name is Perceval.

outside the car there are is another man. He helps you put your bag in the back.

as you sit next to him, you know something is off. There’s an odd feeling about the car, and it’s making your hands fidget. This job was rumored to give you paranoia, but christ, it couldn’t be—

he adjusted his coat, and you see it. Sleek, black metal. Amazing, you think, sarcastically.

You’re starting to regret not carrying a knife on you, or some other weapon, when you remember you’re wearing stilettos.

Thank God.

you reach down as you turn into a dark tunnel, and repeatedly stab the man next to you. He doesn’t die, of course, but you manage to take his gun, and despite the way he twists your hand, you manage to shoot him in the chest. You’ve barely been in Berlin twenty minutes.

The driver is next. You begin struggling as he still tries to steer the car. You’re swerving, and he’s wrestling the gun out of your hands, yet, you manage to shoot him in the side of the head. You’re grateful that the gun was fully loaded.

taking control of the car is a different story— there’s two dead bodies inside the vehicle, and you don’t want to be caught by the Stasi— well, you’re in West Berlin, but it’s still plausible they’re there. KGB would be slightly more possible. Either way, you want to remain discreet.

a car pulls up, slowly.

your actual contact.

Perceval, he says.

“Where the fuck were you?” You spat, anger and panic already rising in you.

“Oh, don’t be so upset. Nothing’s happened, you’re alright,”

“I’ve been made, you idiot!” You exclaimed, already feeling increasingly aggravated. You couldn’t afford this, you had to stay calm.

you took a deep breath while Perceval attempted to placate her. “Christ, woman, you have to calm down,” he groans. “We’ll be fine, it’ll be figured out,” Your contact has a slight British accent. If he’s part of the MI6, you’re unaware, but it’s a possibility.

“Just take me to my hotel,” you sigh, finally, just needing to get away from the scene.

“As you wish,”

Packing yourselves into the car, you discard the bodies somewhere Perceval claims they won’t be found, and you’re finally taken to your hotel.

this job is going to be hell. You can feel it.

September 16th, 1989

The hotel isn’t bad, but you can’t exactly stay there long. You don’t love having to sleep, anyway— it’s necessary, you know, but the dreams that plague you are unbearable.

you always see him. You couldn’t save him, you couldn’t, but does he blame you? Would he still love you?

you don’t want answers, and you don’t want to think about it, so you throw yourself into your work.

You know there’s an apartment in Berlin that housed a list of all active KGB members. You know the man who had the list— your husband— is dead. You just need to find who killed him.

You flag down a cab.

The apartment itself? Already ransacked. There’s papers and files everywhere, and all you do is tear the place up further.

there’s nothing left of him. No pictures, no writing— some files, some other things, but nothing worthwhile. You know it’s been too long since he died for there to be anything. Half of Berlin has probably already been inside the place, but it was worth a try.

but, you find something.

there’s an earring. It looks like there was a struggle in one of the rooms. It’s silver, and you know a woman must have left it. What man wears earrings? Not many you know. Especially not KGB officers.

that’s who has the list.

It’s not like you can’t do two jobs at once, right? The woman who had the list is probably who killed your husband.

you’re sure you’ll find some intel on the way.

Talking to Perceval, he reveals there’s a man named Sergey. He’s important to the KGB, and he has money. He’s currently in West Berlin, allegedly. Perceval isn’t a bad contact. He does have some information, even if he’s insufferable and drinking half the time. He’s a complete wreck, and you’re a little offended that he’s your contact.

he frequents a bar that Perceval’s fond of, as well. You’re sure if you can find Sergey, you’re bound to find some information, as well. It’s very possible.

you get dressed up nicely— lingerie, with a wire hidden by your clothing. You need to record, of course. The wire is covered up by a simple outfit— a long black dress, and a coat.

once you enter the bar, you remove the coat. Your hair has been done quite nicely, framing your face, while the dress is meant to distract. A low cut, a bit loose, revealing your back, shoulders, the side of your chest— and of course, you’re wearing a bit of makeup.

you light up a cigarette, and wait.

after a few minutes, you spot him by the bar. There’s a woman speaking to him. She has short hair, down to the nape of her neck. It’s brown, a darker color in the light. You notice her immediately. She’s wearing a black dress, as you are, with a very low cut. It has straps, and covers most of her back, aside from the diamond shaped cut out that reveals smooth skin. You take a drag, and then she’s gone.

Sergey approaches you. He’s propositioning you, obviously, but you feel off.

there’s something about the woman. There’s something off about her. She didn’t seem like just a patron of the bar.

maybe you should ask Perceval.

September 17th, 1989

You’ve been following a specific man for about an hour. He’s yet to notice you. For a KGB agent, he’s quite dull. His name, Alexander, wasn’t hard to find. His friends are easy to pin down, as well— Nikolai, and Dimitri. All this information has been written down. You’re here to collect information on who’s apart of it, and what they’re doing— but you’re still not able to hear, yet.

Getting close is hard. You don’t want to be seen.

and when you’re about to leave, to go back to your hotel, you catch a glimpse of the woman. The one you saw at the bar.

she’s getting into a cab, sunglasses obscuring her face, and a long coat on.

you tell yourself it’s just a coincidence, and move on.

you get a tip from Perceval, later in the day.

he gives you a watch. This watch, he says, holds a new contact you should meet in the East.

another new passport. More dyed hair. An outfit yet unworn.

getting through the border isn’t the most difficult.

it’s what comes after.

You step into a theater, of some sorts.

you’re already being followed. By who? You’re unaware. Most likely some members of the KGB.

when you’re sitting, you see the woman— with the short, brown hair.

There’s that feeling again, that sense that something is wrong. Why do you keep seeing her?

you slip out the viewing area and move into some storage area, hidden in the theater. You trip the fire alarm, you take some keys out of a coat pocket— those were the keys you needed to meet your contact.

unfortunately, there are some KGB members waiting for you.

Fuck.

the first man is disarmed quickly. A well-placed kick sends him to the ground, and you’re free to focus on the second man.

you get to stab him with the key, and you fight. It’s violent, and the man is very bloody, but he’s managed to get several good kicks and punches in. The pain is clouding your mind, but you’re nothing but a good agent.

You manage to steal a coat off a rack, and slip out of the back unnoticed. An abandoned building is where you’d been told your contact would be.

you unlock the door, and deadbolt it when you get inside the building. The contact is in the roof.

“There’s a lot of unrest in the youth,” He informs. “I’m sure if you found the right motivation, well..”

“Keep talking,”

September 19th, 1989

You made it out of the east relatively unscathed. You took a day to patch up your wounds, to reconvene with Perceval—

there should be someone with information at this club, from what you’ve heard. Perceval encourages you to go.

The club is loud and filled with people. There are colored lights flashing— purple, blue, red— all against the black walls of the club. you’re wearing a black dress, again. It’s tight, sitting at your mid-thigh, exposing your shoulders and some of your back.

you’re at the bar, again, sipping vodka on the rocks when that woman appeared at the bar. She was wearing a skirt, which is a nice navy blue, along with some kind of matching tank top. Over it was a black leather jacket, and her hair was down. You had half a mind to run up to her and ask just what the hell she was doing.

Luckily for you, she walked over to you, ordering a drink. She turned to you, with her drink in hand. She smiled— it was oddly disarming.

“Hey,” she began, taking a sip. “What’s a girl like you doing at a place like this?” Her voice had an accent— it was a bit hard to decipher, though.

“I’m.. just looking for something to do,” you answered, vaguely.

“Oh?” She tilted her head, slightly. “I’m Wendy,” she introduced herself, and extended her hand. You shook it. “C/n,” you muttered, in reply. “It’s nice to meet you,”

She didn’t respond, just moved a little closer. The club was loud.

“What do you do, Wendy?” You asked, wary. You know she had been following you.

“I’m a translator. What do you do?” She asked back, a playful smirk on her face.

“It’s unimportant,” you shrugged, shifting slightly.

“There’s something I really want to ask you,” she smiled, still, leaning closer. “Let’s go somewhere quieter,”

she leads you to a secluded part of the club, a small room covered in graffiti and lit by red lights. The flashing outside was still seen in the room.

it’s immediate, the spark between you two. The tension breaks, and you’re kissing her. This random woman, that could possibly be trying to kill you— she’s up against the wall, and tastes like alcohol. Your ears are still ringing from the noise outside, and as you feel up her body— you feel something cold and hard tucked into her skirt.

you manage to get it out, and point the gun to her head.

“Why do you have a gun, Wendy?” You question, lowly, and she only looks shock for a second. She sucks her teeth, before visibly giving up.

“I’m working for Canadian intelligence,” she murmured. “They sent me out here a few months ago. Things have gotten really bad, lately, and they wanted me to go help some Americans on a job,” she explained, leaning against the wall. She looked so much more confident, before, but now she’s curling in on herself, her arms crossed and a leg up against the wall.

There’s not much you can say for comfort. It’s true. There’s been rumors of the wall going down, and tensions in Berlin are rising. Sometimes, you just want to forget, too.

“I’m guessing c/n isn’t your real name,” she adds, quietly.

“It’s not,” you agree.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she offered.

“Y/n,” you reply, even if you know you really shouldn’t. There’s something about her that makes you want to trust her.

“Son Seungwan. Wendy is my name, but I thought I’d give you something extra,” she smiles, now, even if it’s weak. You remove the gun from her head, and she lets out a soft laugh, looking down, and it just sounds a bit like she’s trying not to cry.

“Things are so, so bad lately,” she mutters to herself.

you don’t have a response. You know they are. You can tell she’s not used to this kind of job. She wasn’t meant for the field.

you lean in, again, and your hands are on her again. You hold her face in your hands, alcohol heavy on your tongue, and the both of you are pressed so close together you might as well be one person.

at one point, the hard wall of the secluded area grows uncomfortable, and you manage to get out of the bar and into a cab, then your hotel room.

your hands are on her again when you enter the hotel room, and there’s just something so warm about her you’re not used to. Maybe it’s because she’s new to this world, and hasn’t hardened around the edges yet, but you like it. You really, really like it.

she’s ripping your clothes off, and you’re doing the same. Her skin is warm, and despite the seedy place you were just in, her hair smells good. It’s soft. You tangle your hands in it, and the both of you fall onto the bed.

You get to forget everything, for a while. That makes it all the more worth it.

September 20th, 1989

and you don’t dream, for once. You’re sure there’s echoes in your mind, but as of right now, you slept soundly the first time in a while.

you would’ve slept through the whole night, if not for Wendy bolting upright in the middle of the night, clutching at her chest and panting.

you’ve always been a light sleeper. There’s no other way to be when you’re in this profession. You blink quickly, the sudden movement shocking your system awake.

“Wendy?” You call, tentatively. You sit up a bit more, your hand hesitantly brushing her side. “Seungwan?” Is what you resort to when she doesn’t respond.

the brunette next to you takes a shuddering breath, but nods. “I’m alright,” she assures, weakly. you don’t want to pry, and the reason for this sudden awakening is quite obvious.

“Go back to sleep,” you instruct, coaxing her to lay back down. Her head is on your chest, now, and it feels strange to be comforting her, but you do anyway. You stay silent, but rub her back gently. You run a hand through her hair, and when you hear her breath even out, you close your eyes again.

it’s strangely intimate, given it’s the first time you’ve officially met, but you don’t mind.

Wendy is warm, and you hate the cold.

When you actually wake up— early, in the morning— it’s even colder. Luckily, Wendy was still there. It looked like she was a slight sleeper, too, but was too tired to do anything but continue to lay there. You sat up.

Wendy looked unguarded when she slept. There was always something off about her when you saw her in public, a sort of forced ease and practiced facade about her, but as of now, she was simply quiet, and relaxed.

You were slightly unsure what to do.

“Wendy?” You called, peering down at her. She stirred immediately, rubbing her eyes as she sat up. Usually, she would’ve jolted up, but as of right now, she was finally feeling well-rested.

“c/n,” is how she greets you. She would’ve said your name— she quite likes it, after all— but your room could be bugged. Everybody knew that.

In any other scenario, you would have left before she woke. She would have done the same. But you’re both aware there’s a certain kind of suspicion surrounding you two— what if she stole something? You couldn’t leave her unsupervised.

you both don’t talk. She gets dressed, and you light up a cigarette.

she wrinkles her nose at the smell, and you pay her no mind.

it’s cold in Berlin, today.

September 25th, 1989

you keep seeing Wendy everywhere you go. You’re aware she’s trailing you, but that’s kind of her job description, so you ignore it. It’s just that every night, she’s in your hotel, without fail. Much like right now.

“Wendy,” you groan, fingers tangled in her soft hair. “How many times-” your breath hitches, and you look down at her. “-are we going to do this?”

she looks back up, and her eyes are dark and hazy. “Well,” she murmurs back, voice low. “I think the better question is how many times can we do this?”

Wendy’s voice is like honey, and it pulls you in. It’s slightly rough. You forget about your objective, again, as you’re with Wendy.

she bites at your lip, tugging it, and you reciprocate.

and when you wake up, it’s before her. You watch her leave in silence again. You would much rather not seeing her in the morning, you would rather just leave— but you don’t trust her alone in your hotel room.

there’s still some rules you’ve made sure to keep.

September 26th, 1989

you are instructed to meet your superior. There have been small reports back to the CIA that you’re distracted, not completing your work— it’s not true, but it’d be hard to argue.

“C/n,” he greets, casually.

“Badger,” you return the greeting, eyeing him cautiously.

“You’ve managed to get me sent over here,” he informs. “I wonder, c/n, what is it that’s been distracting you?”

“I’m not distracted,” you protest. “I’ve just been collecting information while I plan what to do with it,”

“Right, then. I’d hate for your friend.. Wendy, is it? I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her,”

“What are you implying, sir?” You gritted out, your jaw clenched.

“Don’t be dull,” he murmured back, dangerously. “Finish the job, y/n. Or someone will finish it for you,”

September 29th, 1989

You had been working nonstop, now. You had successfully orchestrated a meeting with a man you only knew as Yuri— Perceval had assured he’d have information.

it was a rather simple affair.

“Yuri,” you greeted, as you sat down.

“C/n, it’s a pleasure to see you,” he smiled, although it was practiced.

“I’ve been told you know who has the list— I’ve also been told you know some of the contents of the list,” you began, slowly. “In exchange for my promise to help you out of East Berlin, I’d like to know what, exactly, is in the list, and who is in possession of it,”

“I can’t tell you who exactly has it, but I can tell you where they are. As for what’s in the list, well— it’s all current KGB informers, and a few other bits of information covering them. It’ll tell you where they’re stationed, for how long, the things they’ve passed along.. quite a useful list, wouldn’t you say?”

“Quite,” you murmur, in agreement.

you aren’t quite ready for the sense of betrayal when you find out, though. You aren’t ready at all

you’re at some dingy apartment, one that looks barely cleaned. You’re inspecting the drawers of a dresser when—

“Wendy?” You blinked, surprised at seeing the other woman.

“C/n? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m..” you see her ear, now. There’s a silver earring, it looks oddly familiar, and— her other ear is missing an earring. A sense of dread washes over you in waves, and you feel the shock begin to creep in. Its a cold chill that runs up along your spine. You berate yourself. You’re a CIA agent, for Christ’s sakes, you should react like this to a little betrayal. It’s what you expected.

“Wendy,” you murmur, slowly. “Where’s the list?”

“What?”

“Where’s the list, Wendy?” You press again, slowly taking your gum out of your coat.

“Y/n, come on, I-”

“Where’s the fucking list, Wendy? I need that list!” You press, growing frantic. The first thing you’re taught is to keep your cool, but for some reason, you just feel off-kilter. You point the gun at her.

“I can’t give you the list,” she murmurs, turning her gaze away from you.

“Wendy, just tell me where-” and in that split second, she’s sprung up in front of you, her hand turning your arm, the gun now on the floor. You barely register what’s happening until she elbows you in the stomach— hard. Your breath is stolen away, and you struggle to take in a gasp of air. You lunge at her, the both of you falling to the floor. It’s a struggle, but you manage to get a few good hits in. It all comes to a head when you grasp a shard of glass, and impale her hand. She lets out a shriek, and you scramble onto your feet. You rush towards the bookshelf, where you’re sure the list is, but she grabs your ankle. She tugs you down, and you fall into the hardwood floor while she stands to her feet. She kicks your side, moving you out of the way with her foot, and takes the list from behind one of the novels. She rushes out of the door, and you try to get up despite your disorientation.

you’re chasing her now, and she’s fleeing into the streets, hailing a cab. You do the same, of course, but she’s already being lost in the crowd. Fuck.

November 7th, 1989

it’s a strange feeling, really.

you’ve only known Wendy for about three weeks, but the betrayal stings. She has the list— she knows who killed your husband. She knows you, and yet she’s nowhere to be found.

It’s just hard to understand. Did she know? Was she working with Pyotr? She had said she was working with Canadian intelligence, but it could be a lie. You should’ve known better than to trust some random woman that you met.

but your time is running out. You need the list by the ninth of November. You only have two days.

you have to talk to Perceval.

“There’s a warehouse in East Berlin,” he begins, twirling a cigarette between his fingers, as you stand in his messy, cluttered apartment. “There’s an exchange going on for the list. Pyotr wants it to cover some things up, and he’s planning on auctioning it off to the highest bidder. The thing is, he has to be given the list. By Wendy.

“And when is this happening?” You inquire.

“The ninth,” he replies. “There’s going to be a protest, a huge one. It’s the perfect cover,”

“Right, then,” you nod. “I’ll need a fake passport, again,” you remind.

“Of course,” he grins, in that sleazy way of his. “It’ll be done by tomorrow morning,”

November 9th, 1989

“Here’s my passport,” you say, as you hand it to the man in the booth. He checks the passport, giving you a strange look, but you’re allowed inside.

the deal is allegedly being made later, when the sun begins to set.

you wait, and it gives you some time to think. You’re in some dingy abandoned building, and it reminds you of your first assignment with him.

sometimes, you feel guilty for moving on like this. His death hurt, of course, and you’re doing this assignment for him, primarily, but— after, what’s left? You’re alone. Your only friends are your coworkers, you’ve never been able to know anybody, and everyone you love ends up dead. You hate this job. You really do. And Wendy- it’s stupid, you know it is, but you felt.. good, with her. She was witty, and intelligent, and you can’t believe you let your guard down.

everyone that you’ve ever loved, ever trusted, is either dead, or has betrayed you. Well, no. To be fair, most of your coworkers haven’t, but that’s not for you— that’s for the good of the country.

you begin preparing your weapons, your supplies, and your plan.

you have to put these feelings behind you. They make you volatile.

The protesting outside could be heard from your spot in the corner of the dusty old building, and you took that as your cue. You slipped out through a back door, into the throngs of marching youth. Finding the warehouse wasn’t that hard, honestly. You entered slowly, and tried to peer inside as you went, looking for a wall or something to cover you. You leaned against some kind of corrugated metal sheet, one that obscured you. Your gun was heavy and cold in your hands.

“Pyotr, I have the list,” You hear, and it stops you in your tracks. It sounds a lot like Wendy. It probably was, if you were honest.

“Good, good. Give it, now,” he instructs, presumably holding out a hand. You can’t see them.

there’s the sound of rustling paper, which you find odd, now that you think about it— why would such a confidential list be written on paper? Why wouldn’t it be hidden somewhere, in a watch, or painting, even?

“I’d better get going then,” You heard her turn, footsteps making their way to the door where you were standing near. You held your breath.

“Wait,” Pyotr’s voice. “I can’t let you go before I read the list, Wendy,” He laughed, lowly, and it sounded threatening. “I need to make sure everything’s on it,”

You heard Wendy’s footsteps stop. She was frozen. Suddenly, you watched her bolt. She ran straight out of the door, most likely when Piotr looked down to read. Your eyes widened, and your first instinct was to chase after her.

it was hard to find her in the mess of protesters, but only she was running. You ran after her, contemplating on yelling her name. It was a few seconds later when you saw Pyotr, as well— he had just stepped out of the warehouse, and gave some directions to a man high up in a building via a hand signal. His face looked cold— angry.

suddenly, you noticed a man dressed in civilian clothing following Wendy, as well. He trailed a few paces behind, walking quickly to keep her in sight. You then realized something had to be wrong with the list. Wendy had given them the wrong thing.

you were rapidly approaching the wall— as you ran, something told you to look up and to your right. A tall, run-down looking building, boarded up, and—

that’s when you see the faintest glimmer, something reflecting the barely there ray of light obscured by the clouds. The tip of a sniper rifle.

The spike of fear is what causes you to shriek out, “Wendy!”

she turns her head, and stops for a second. You don’t know if you’ve just signed her death warrant or not, because you lunge at her, tackling her to the ground.

You feel a droplet of a warm, familiar liquid hit your hand. It’s crimson, it’s blood.

you look to Wendy. She’s staring up at you with wide eyes, panting. You’re panting, too, and the adrenaline doesn’t completely taper down the pain of the gunshot in your shoulder. You had moved her out of way enough to be unscathed. It was unfortunate the bullet hit you, but you were both alive.

Alive. You wouldn’t be for long if you just stood there. Wendy seemed to realize that too. She scrambled upright, dragging you up with her, and now the both of you were running.

“Wendy,” you panted, glancing over at her, and then your surroundings. “Why are you being chased? What’s going on? Where’s the list?” You bombarded her with questions, but they were necessary.

Wendy made a sharp turn, jumping into the front seat of an unlocked car. You quickly caught on, and threw yourself into the passenger seat.

“I gave them the wrong one,” she confessed, lowly, breaths shaky as you both ran closer and closer to the wall.

“What?” You blinked, heart pounding in your chest, blood still roaring in your ears. “Why.. what? I don’t-”

“I’m supposed to bring the list back to my superiors. That’s my assignment,” she confesses. “I just didn’t think.. I don’t know why they gave me such an important one, I don’t know if I can complete, I didn’t think he’d notice, and-”

Wendy’s started the car, and navigating the streets is another mission all on its own. Suddenly, you hear the sound of glass cracking, and your head whips around to see hundreds of fractures on the back window of the car. Your eyes widen, and you watch Wendy hit the gas. You pray that another car, a bus, a truck, a bullet— you pray it doesn’t hit you.

“…The wall is coming down... The sledgehammers in the hands of men not born when it went up tear into it... behind it, the East German soldiers tried to stop the tide. Water cannons were brought out, but the West Berliners were determined. One West Berliner sprayed champagne back. It is the moment Berliners have waited twenty-eight years for…”

Wendy is in your hotel room. She’s patching up your shoulder, and you’re panting. Pyotr isn’t dead, but you have the list. You let out a sharp hiss as Wendy presses a cotton ball, saturated with alcohol, straight to the wound.

“Sorry,” she mutters, and you bite the side of your lip to not make a sound.

“It’s fine,” you reply, stilted. It’s kind of awkward, all things considered. You still let her bandage you up, and there’s an uneasy, tentative silence.

When she’s done, you bandage up her hand. It’s only fair. She had already done so, but you redress the wound. You may not be the best agent, but you always have gauze.

and when you’re done, you stand. You wish you had a painkiller.

“Wendy,” you call, lowly. “I need you to tell me where Pyotr is— or where he’s going, I don’t care. Just tell me,”

she owes you this much, you figure.

“He.. he should have been giving this to some seller. I don’t know where, but now that he doesn’t have it, he’s.. well, I’d think he’s coming after me,” she reasoned.

“And where does he think you are?”

“My hotel room, probably,”

“That’s where we’ll go, then,”

Finding Pyotr isn’t hard. He’s currently tearing apart Wendy’s hotel room, two of his men standing outside the door. You signal to Wendy, and both of you walk closer, silently. You both stay close to the wall, and you only have one shot.

a bang. a second.

There lie two bodies, crumpled on the ground. You push past them, moving them aside with your boot, and opening the door to the hotel room. You stay pressed to the wall, of course, you can’t just barge in.

You take a chance, and glance inside. Pyotr immediately shoots at you— he misses.

you glance at Wendy.

you take a few blind shots inside. You hear a pained shriek, guttural and low, and turn to see directly inside. He’s on the floor. You make eye contact for a split second before pulling the trigger, again.

a third body, limp and bleeding out on the ground. You don’t feel satisfaction, though. Just a cold hollowness.

You stare at Pyotr’s body for a long time. Wendy puts a hand on your shoulder.

“Y/n,” she calls, softly. “Let’s go,”

November 25th, 1989

“Congratulations,” Badger takes the list from your hands. The real list was encoded in a watch. You and Wendy had to transcribe all of it onto this list and hand it back to your respective agencies. You were back on home soil, now.

“Thank you,” you bow your head, slightly. It feels strange to be congratulated for this. It was sloppy, and you barely got the job done. You wouldn’t have been able to complete it without Seungwan— or maybe she’s the reason it was such a mess. Either way, it was done.

“Y/n!” You turn your head to the sound of your name— your real name— It’s her.

“Seungwan?” You blink, a smile creeping onto your face. “What are you doing here?”

Badger has the sense to make himself scare, disappearing down one of the many hallways of the main building.

“Well, the CIA wanted a translator, and I volunteered,” she explained, a small smirk growing on her face. “I figured while I got situated you’d let me crash at yours?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, replacing the action with an amused huff. “Right. I suppose I can agree to that,”

She has a small grin on her face, and leans forward. “You’ll show me around America, won’t you?” She presses. She’s so.. smug isn’t the word. Teasing, maybe? Something like that.

“Just like we toured around Berlin?”

“No,” she snorts, shaking her head. “I’d prefer it to be a bit more calm, if you wouldn’t mind,”

You sighed, theatrically, as she leaned in. She pressed a kiss to your lips, and a warm feeling blossomed inside you. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands snaking into her hair as you sighed into her mouth.

“Yeah,” you murmured against her mouth, reluctantly breaking apart. You still had public decency, obviously. “Yeah, I’ll show you around..”

A/N: IM SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT!! I know it’s not the best pacing and there’s not a lot a lot of interactions.. it’s mostly plot and I apologize. I don’t love how this came out, but I don’t think it’s bad either. Perfectly average and mediocre. kind of sad I wasted such good plot and setting on this but.. so is life. I promise to do wendy/rv justice in another work, but take this while I work on my sakura fic I SWEARRR I’ll try to get it out in a timely manner. as always, thank you for reading and please send asks!! they’re what inspires me to write, in a way.

p.s. the music for this fic is so good I highly recommend you listen to it as you read. songs are in order but you can play it out of order I guess. the most important part is the politics of dancing is meant for the club scene so if you just want to play it there ❤️THANK YOU!!

#carpmasterlist #carps works #red velvet x reader #son seungwan x reader #wendy x reader #wendy x fem reader #son seungwan x fem reader #red velvet x fem reader #wendy x female reader #red velvet imagines #girl group imagines #gg x reader

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