A/N: this ended up longer than i expected because i don't know how to shut up 🤭 i don't know if this still counts as a blurb but i had fun writing this. let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list
C/W: alcohol consumption, cursing, not smut but a passionate and aggressive(?) make out, jealousy, fighting, angst
Peter sent the invitation through the mail, hoping he could bypass his employee’s notice. The invitation, listed only to Jessica Thompson, asked that she make an appearance at his home the following Saturday for a dinner party he was hosting. A night dedicated to connecting with like-minded individuals and full of riveting conversation. His intentions couldn’t be more obvious.
Which only made it more awkward when Harry was the one to collect the mail.
When you found it, the cardstock was worried around the edges, a corner creased in agitation, waiting for you on the entryway table.
He didn’t bring it up. Busy in the kitchen, with his back to you, he was making some chocolate chip cookies for Mrs. Singh’s neighborhood bake sale.
There’s a tentative balance between the two of you, right now, secured only by your recent agreement to try to work together. The burgeoning comradery was a new minefield you had to learn to navigate. Now that Peter has thrown this curveball, the cooperation between you two feels on a precipice.
Harry expects you to accept the invitation at face value, isolating yourself from him again. The invitation is a test, one you’re not prepared for.
It would be so simple to shove the card into your purse, to not bring it up, and to attend the event by yourself. To have all the control, to be responsible for only yourself.
“Would you-” you stop yourself, your voice sounding warped with nerves and uncertainty. It feels like a sign that you’re taking a misstep, but you make yourself plow forward. “Would you like to go to this with me?”
“To what?” he asks innocently, not even turning to face you, placing a freshly rolled cookie ball on the baking tray. You’d almost buy it, how he wears his nonchalance like a second skin, if it weren’t for the fact the oven hasn’t been on this whole time.
“A dinner party at Peter’s.” Harry pauses, mid cookie roll, spinning on his heels so he can see you, to make sure you’re not playing some kind of trick on him. You hold up the invitation between your middle and fore finger to emphasize your point. “Do you want to come with me?” you ask again, enunciating each word delicately.
The dough softens between Harry’s warm hands, melting into his palms, as he continues to monitor you, waiting for the slip up, for the deception to be revealed. But, nothing happens. Realizing that you’re serious, Harry breaks out into one of his cheeky smirks. “Are you asking me on a date?”
Instantly, your face drops in displeasure. “No.”
“Is my darling wife asking me out to dinner?” he teases, cleaning the mess off his hands. You’re already walking away, regretting the choice you’ve made. “Oh, honey, c’mon, I think it’s cute you wanna take me out.”
“That’s number three!” you remark, mentally filling in one of his allotted nickname slots. You don’t have to turn around to see the smile that’s stretching across his face, but you can feel a similar one twitching at the corner of your mouth.
The guard returns Jessica’s ID to you, satisfied at the matching information, and waves you through the gate. Calling the area a gated community was a disservice. Mansions line the road, each one trying to outdo the other. Empty lawns corralled by pristine hedges, driveways curved around fountains, stone statues that reminisce of a period long ago, all this excessive decoration meant to evoke oohs and aahs. You continue driving past the elaborate displays of wasted wealth, each more garish than the last.
“Did you end up telling Peter you were coming tonight?”
“I tried,” Harry mutters, grooming himself in the visor mirror. Your accusing glare shoots across the console before returning back to the road. ”Hey, I did my best,” he defends, trying to get that one stubborn curl of his to cooperate. “I asked Peter about any weekend plans, and he said ‘Oh, just a casual get together,’ no mention of inviting my wife, by the way. Then he asks me, and I say ‘The wife and I are going to spend some time together, maybe go out to dinner,’ and nothing. It’s not my fault if that smug prick can’t put two and two together.”
Harry’s hostility towards Peter only grew more bitter as you got closer to the event date. Many breakfast conversations were spent with Harry opining the disrespect Peter was blatantly showing to your relationship. Reminding him of the illegitimacy of your marriage does little to sway him. It’s the principal of the thing, he’d say.
“Maybe if you didn’t refer to me as ‘the wife’, Peter might know who you’re talking about.”
“Oh, he knows who I’m talking about. He gets this jealous twitch in his eyebrow whenever I mention you,” he grumbles, his own jealousy on display in his tight movements and hard glare. “Besides, didn't you send in an RSVP?”
Donning a posh accent, you reply, “Yes, dear, and I made sure to use the good stationary.” Now, Harry glares at you, causing you to snort. “Don't worry, I texted him and asked if I could bring a plus one and he said yes.”
His face droops into a deep pout. “I thought we agreed you'd share your texts with him.”
“We agreed we'd share things that mattered to the mission. Asking if you can come to dinner isn't included,” you dissuade. “Unless you're rethinking that phone sharing rule?” Harry’s mouth scrunches up in dissatisfaction, turning back to face the road. He would've agreed to an open phone policy, but your all-or-nothing condition would include his conversations with his family and he wasn't willing to expose those to you.
Clearing his throat, Harry changes the subject. “So how are we taking this tonight?”
“I don't want to push our luck tonight. If everything goes well, this shouldn't be the last time we're invited here. Peter mentioned he wanted to introduce me to some people who might want to invest in the museum, so I'm going to be networking with them, see if anyone is connected to Nox, work some kind of angle there.” You glance over at Harry, his body tense. “What do you want to do, Sam?”
Harry nods, thinking it over. “I'll see what comes up.”
Your eyebrows shoot up at his answer. “You'll improvise?”
“Sure,” he shrugs.
As you pull off the street and onto Peter's private road, you look at Harry, assessing him this time. He's wearing a black suit jacket, black slacks, with a white t-shirt, the neckline dipping just enough to show his sparrow wings. The S ring he's donned again twists between his fingers with agitation. His gaze is steady but unfocused. “Sam, are you going to be okay tonight?”
“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, maintaining his glare out the window. “Do you want me to wear the glasses?”
“It'd help, so we can go over the conversations again.”
“Just my conversations, though, right?”
“Sam-”
Harry knocks his head back against the headrest. “I'm sorr-”
“I'll wear the glasses, if that'll-”
“No, no, it's not- fuck.” He closes his eyes, pushing a breath through his nose. “I'm not trying to be difficult, sorry.”
Curving around the fountain, you stop the car in front of the house, the entrance wide open and vulnerable. Idlying, you pinch your nose, alleviating the headache you can feel clustering in the forefront of your brain. “Harry,” you sigh, the use of his real name signaling how serious you are. “You're the one who keeps insisting we work together-"
“I know.”
“-and if you want this to work-”
“I do.”
“-then I need to know I can rely on you.” A sick feeling twists in your stomach at that revelation, even a pinch of honesty feels like coating your throat with acid. You don’t want to rely on him, on anybody. But you can’t discount how begrudgingly useful he’s become in your life, especially outside the mission.
When you’re too entrenched in museum work to take a break, Harry will make up a plate filled with crackers, carrots, and hummus, leaving it close enough for you to notice, but far enough away you have to step away from your laptop to ease your grumbling stomach. There was some Advil and a glass of water left on your nightstand on those nights you drank a little too much. The emerald dress you're wearing was picked out by him. It’s his favorite color, Harry told you, Peter’s favorite.
Spaces where you learned to expect solitude were now being filled by Harry and it scared you how easily he slotted in between, weaseling his way into crevices you didn’t know existed.
“You’re right,” Harry agrees. “I’m sorry, did you still want me to-”
The passenger door swings open, Peter’s smug face falls in surprise when he comes face to face with his employee. “H- oh, hi,” he stumbles through his greeting. “Sorry, I expected Jessica to…” Peter trails off, the implication dangling overhead like the pine tree shaped air freshener.
You pat Harry’s thigh, a coy smile dancing on your lips. “Yeah, he's my little passenger princess,” Jessica teases. Harry shakes his head at you, holding back the laugh that wants to burst forth while Peter clears his throat, walking around the car to the driver’s side. “You ready to go, Sam?”
It’s in those few seconds, before Peter comes around and opens your door, that you and Harry come to a silent agreement. His raised brows ask Are you sure? And the miniscule nod of your head says Don't let me down.
“These scallops are perfectly seared,” Natalie compliments, covering her mouth with a polite hand. Natalie Masters, a real estate mogul from New York, spoons up another bite and leans over to feed it to her wife.
The scallops were… okay. Cooked thoroughly, a little heavy on the lemon and too light on the pepper. You kept your opinions locked behind Jessica’s smile, scooping up your own spoonful, nodding your head along with the other guests.
Peter, sitting at the head of the table, leans over to you, sat to his right, his proclaimed guest of honor. “And how about you, Jessie? Is the wine enough or would you like something stronger?” The sleaze he's displaying oozes like the lemon sauce dripping off your spoon.
Shyly, you avert your gaze away from him, blushing as if you’re near drugging was a secret the two of you shared. “This is delicious, actually. The citrus notes pair nicely with the scallops.”
“Thank you,” Peter puffs, claiming responsibility for the meal as if he cooked it.
Langdon Yates, who owns a private equity firm, points at the artwork hanging on the wall behind you. “That one's new, isn't it, Pete?”
Turning back, you see Executions at Badajoz Bull Ring by Marti Bas, the massacre displayed proudly before the dining table. Peter admires the art, giving a short sigh to add gravitas. “Indeed. See, everybody knows about the French Revolution, but most people don't know about the Spanish Revolution and isn't that a shame? I think it really says something about our country.”
Accordance spreads through the room, appeasing the host’s empty sentence. He didn't offer any insight about the Spanish Revolution save for simply acknowledging its existence.
“Yeah,” Harry interjects. “It's a shame most people aren't aware of the socialist revolts to protect Spanish democracy from right-wing Nationalists.” He grabs his wine and takes a sip, licking the excess off his lips casually as everyone pauses to look at him in surprise. Surprise at his outburst, surprise at the disrespect, or surprise at the balls to speak back, the medley of responses is plain on everyone's face. You impale the heel of your shoe into his foot and his sniffle covers his sharp inhale of pain.
Peter clears his throat. “Yes, I agree. My point exactly,” he murmurs, stuffing another bite of food into his mouth, swallowing the morsel quickly.
“Are you also a fan of the Spanish Revolution?” asks Heather Kingsley, raising a seductive brow at Harry, and a smirk that was as tailored to fit her as the dress she wore. The black satin clings to her body, modest in the front, with an alluring exposed back that caps off just at the curve of her toned ass. Her fiery hair bounces as she tilts her head in cat-like curiosity. An art dealer from D.C., she's been appraising Harry from the moment you two had walked in, her sapphire eyes tracking him like a predator. Heather's date for the night keeps side eyeing her, silently vying for her attention.
Harry shakes his head, finishing off his bite before answering. “No, but my wife hosted a night celebrating Spanish artists during times of upheaval to benefit the victims of that earthquake that hit Baja a couple years back so I heard all about it from her.” He looks at you with a proud grin, forcing everyone's focus to shift over to you.
Gun to your head, you'd never admit it, but Harry's improv is impressive.
Heather leans forward, her precise gaze taking its time to leave Harry's form. “Wow, that's quite noble of you. What philanthropy project are you working on now?” she queries, her head arching in the other direction, her hair cascading down her shoulder in waterfall waves.
“She gives art to those in need,” Peter says, squeezing your arm, rubbing his thumb across your skin in slow drags, savoring the feel of you. He points up to Executions. “She got me that one, in fact.”
Langdon whistles approvingly. “Nice, no wonder your tastes have improved. You actually found someone with a good eye. No offence, Heather.”
Heather lifts her shoulder in a brief shrug, unbothered by his comment. “Everybody knows you have no taste, Yates. Besides, some people prefer old things. And others prefer the… risk of something new.” She shifts in her seat slightly as her gaze slides back to Harry, and you faintly hear the rustle of Harry's pants. He gives nothing away, as you assume her foot glides up his leg.
Two servants emerge from the kitchens, wearing matching busboy uniforms. One cleans up the dishes, the other refills everyone's glasses, and Peter stands up with his glass raised. “I'd like to thank you all for attending my dinner. A reminder before I let you all loose, that if you get too drunk to drive yourselves home, you're free to stay the night in one of my guest rooms. Please don't steal one of my horses and try to ride it home, again, Colin.” Colin Westwood, the son of Delaware's senator, clinks his glass against his seatmate’s, chuckling at the memory. “Ars longa, vita brevis!” The crowd lifts their glasses in toast, repeating the Latin phrase.
Noise within the dining room crescendos as people stand up, pairing off in groups, dispersing around the house. You turn to Harry to drag him towards the first group you have your eye on when Heather glides up to him, locking her arm around his. “Mind if I borrow you for a second?” she asks, not breaking her stride, collecting him in her grasp as if choreographed. A part of you was impressed at her grace, how easy it was to kidnap your husband from your side without a word of protest from anyone. Harry allows himself to be led away, smiling down at her, not even looking your way.
Peter comes up beside you, offering to personally introduce you to a Virginian judge who’s been on the hunt for a specific John William Waterhouse piece and maybe you could help him find it.
Two hours after dinner is over, and Harry is still tucked away in an alcove, sitting too close to Heather, their knees knocking against each other as their conversation weaves endlessly throughout the night. Her laugh echoes around the room, seeping into the gaps of other discussions, intruding into conversations she didn't care to be a part of.
The man she brought tonight keeps staring longingly at the two of them, pacing back and forth nearby until Heather asks point blank if he needed anything. Without an excuse, he slumps away and disappears. Once he’s gone, Heather’s fingers dance along Harry’s shoulder, pulling him in even closer.
Not that you're paying attention to them. You're definitely following along with fashion designer Colette Seyrès's story about her honeymoon in Morocco, listening to her drone on about how grounding it is to stand somewhere with so much history, knowing you stand in a spot where thousands of years ago, someone else once stood. You hold back your eye roll, nodding along with the others crowded around. Colin rubs his finger up and down your arm as he asks about your honeymoon. You politely answer the Amalfi Coast while switching your stance from one leg to the other, distancing yourself from his touch.
All night, men have been grabbing your arm, patting your shoulder, pinching your cheeks, and the bold ones would squeeze your waist, tugging you closer to them. Despite the ring on your finger, the absence of your husband by your side was instead filled by men who wanted more than just artwork from you. The longer the night lasts, your smile is starting to ache and you’ve heard the same joke six different times tonight and your partner is lost in another woman’s eyes and no one has mentioned anything about Nox Colhoun or Pandora Island or anything related to your mission and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind to the refrain of Heather’s laugh.
Natalie is about to dive into her theory on Arabian architecture hiding secret alien codes when you excuse yourself from the group and head over to the bar, claiming to need a refill. Alone at the bar, you tap your finger furiously, impatiently while the bartender steps away for just a moment while they retrieve another bottle of wine from the cellar. You tell yourself you’re not annoyed about Heather, that she’s not the problem. Harry was the one getting lost in her charm, ignoring the mission in favor of a pretty face. It was a mistake to let him loose. You're losing yourself in the incessant tick of your nail against the wood when Heather's laugh streaks across the room and strikes you like lightning. At that moment, your nail stabs into the wood at the sound, cracking down the middle. You hold your finger up, inspecting it to see a bead of blood sprout from the split.
“I've done worse to myself, don't worry,” a voice comforts behind you.
You spin around to see the woman who Langdon sat next to at dinner. Her hair is streaked with grey, striking against the natural black. The navy dress she wears is tight up top but flows out at the waist. She hadn't said a word at dinner and stayed by Langdon's side during most of the social hour, quietly sipping her drink. “Sorry?”
“No, I'm sorry. I'm Langdon's wife, Melissa Yates,” she greets, sticking her hand out to you.
You grab her hand with your uninjured one in an awkward grasp of fingers, the two of you breathing out a laugh. “Nice to meet you, I'm Jess-”
“I know who you are, guest of honor,” she interrupts, emphasizing your title. She walks around the bar, grabbing a towel, wetting the cloth with a bottle of Absolut vodka. “Peter’s been raving about you for a while now,” she says, handing the wet rag to you.
You take it, hissing when it makes contact with your bleeding finger. “Thank you.”
“I'm only being nice because I have to say something you don't wanna hear,” she warns, grabbing two shot glasses and filling them with the same vodka that now soaked your finger. Melissa sets one glass in front of you, lifting the other to her lips with a grave sigh. “The sooner you can accept that Heather will fuck your husband, the sooner you can get over it,” she states, tossing the shot back with practiced ease. “She does it to everyone. I swear, it's like part of the initiation.”
On cue, Heather’s cackle rings out, and you watch the noise impact Melissa. Her moments freeze, a pause in time, before Heather quiets down and Melissa resumes her haphazard bartending.
“Initiation?” You disguise your intrigue behind confusion, hoping she'll give you some snippet of information.
She gives you a look of pity with a knowing smile, one she’s given to many women before. “Baby, I hope you know what you’re getting yourself involved in. Some do, some don’t. But, without fail, whoever gets close to this crowd, eventually they'll go through Heather, as well.” She grabs your hand, holding it between both of hers. “It’ll be easier for you to accept that now, so when it happens, you’ll be less angry.”
Melissa’s advice is well rehearsed. The crinkles by her eyes reveal more than her words do, the arguments, the sleepless nights, the fantasies of leaving an unfaithful husband. She’s handholding you through an affair, preparing you for inevitable heartbreak.
But that’s not going to be a problem for you. You wouldn’t be grieving over your sham marriage, you’d celebrate it. It hasn’t been discussed, but the two of you knew what you were, what you needed to do to get information. If that meant hiding behind closed doors and stripping off your clothes, so be it. And if Harry wanted to waste his time sleeping with Heather instead of focusing on your mission, you weren’t going to stop him. In fact, you could use this to justify taking over the mission.
Crocodile tears rim your eyes. “Thank you… um- for warning me. Uh… can you excuse me? I have to…” Jessica points to herself with a self-deprecating laugh.
Melissa nods, familiar with this response, and takes your leftover shot for herself. You attempt to hold it all together, quietly sniffling, blinking your eyes furiously, but as soon as you climb the stairs, distancing yourself away from the big crowd of people, you drop the act.
You and Harry studied blueprints of Peter’s house leading up to the dinner. Two colonial farmhouses that were merged into one renovated amalgamation that eliminated any character the homes were originally built with. So you had an idea of the layout, not necessarily what each room was repurposed into. You peek inside a few rooms, pass by a couple passionately making out in the hallway, until you find something that looks promising.
Walls of wooden shelving stacked two stories tall with books, a ladder leading up to a wraparound landing, the smell of paper permeating the space. In the middle of the library, commanding all the attention, sits a large mahogany desk. The desk is mostly plain, only a computer and the miniature Nike figurine Peter mentioned to you before.
The computer boots up with a shake of the mouse, and you sit in the plush leather chair as the screen lights up on a login page. Clicking on the convenient hint button reveals the word “ninth”.
Through the door you left slightly ajar, you hear voices approaching. Two people tripping over themselves with drunken giggles, looking for a room to busy themselves inside. You’re prepared to duck down beneath the desk should anyone peek in when the art above the door catches your eye. A reproduction of Michael Spafford’s Labors of Hercules hangs there. The monochromatic copycat wasn’t one you gave to Peter, priding yourself on only giving away originals.
When the hallway quiets down again, you look back at the computer, then back to the artwork. Each square displays the tasks Hercules had to complete to atone for the murder of his wife and children. The ninth square features two bodies facing each other, one angular and sharp, the other curvy and soft. It’s an interpretation of Hercules’ retrieval of the belt of Hippolyta, the Amazonian queen. You type “Belt of Hippolyta” which results in an error message. Then, you type in “Hippolyta’s Belt” and the computer unlocks, showing off Peter's desktop background, a photograph of Peter streaking nude towards a lake.
All things considered, Peter’s password being connected to a story of a man murdering a female warrior queen wasn’t too shocking.
You do a little shimmy of your shoulders in a celebratory dance before reaching into your pocket and pulling out a tube of lipstick. Twisting the cap off, instead of makeup, you reveal a USB connector and plug it into the port. The spyware program pops up and begins copying over all the files, along with setting up a blockade to hide your tracks. Letting the program run, you turn your attention elsewhere.
The Nike miniature looks as if it was bought from a gift shop, cheap and plastic. Picking it up, though, you’re surprised at the heft required to lift it up. You turn the object around, inspecting it for any seams, any hiding spots.
“I thought you didn’t want to push your luck tonight.”
Harry’s voice startles you, causing you to lose your grip on the statue. You catch it before it drops to the ground, but in the shuffle, Nike twists on her forward foot. The podium base separates and drops into your lap, a notebook tucked inside. Releasing a sigh, you look over at Harry who’s leaning against a bookshelf, one foot crossed over the other, his chest puffed up at catching you in the act.
“I didn’t,” you say, pulling the notebook out of its hiding spot. “But I’m improvising.”
He snorts as he comes up next to you, checking out your progress. “What’s that?”
“Some notebook Peter had stashed away.” You flip the item over, finding it no different than the front, then hold it out to Harry. “Would you-”
“Yeah.” He takes the notebook with one hand, pulling his phone out with the other. As he flips through, photographing each page, Harry gives it a quick skim, looking for any stand out details or recognizable names. You look back over at the computer, fifty-seven percent of the files copied over to the program already. “How’d the networking go?”
Your face scrunches up as you make a dissatisfied groan, clicking open Peter’s web browser. “Well, Natalie kept asking if I had anything from the Illuminati, a professor at Princeton thought I could get him the Mona Lisa, and someone who looks a lot like Chet Hanks kept asking why ‘that David dude’ has such a small dick.”
“Wait, are you saying that wasn’t Chet Hanks?”
“I honestly have no idea,” you admit. Harry chuckles and you allow yourself to smile alongside him. “I’m surprised you saw him.”
Harry raises an eyebrow at you. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” you shrug, not taking your eyes off the screen. “I just didn’t know if you noticed anyone besides Heather.” It comes out casually, as if you’re unbothered by her. Which you are. She might be the catalyst but it’s Harry’s inability to turn down a pair of ocean-blue eyes with fluttering eyelashes that actually bothers you.
When you say her name, understanding dawns on Harry’s face. “What, are you jealous?”
You let out a mix of a laugh and a scoff, appalled at the idea. “Seriously? That’s rich coming from you.”
“That wasn’t a no.” He sings the last word, dragging it out.
“I’m not jealous,” you defend. “You’re projecting your own feelings.”
“Darling, your face is flushed,” he taunts, using one of his safe nicknames to annoy you further.
“It’s from the shot I took earlier.”
“You didn’t take that shot.” That draws your attention away from Peter’s personal e-mails, astonishment clear on your face. He gives you a shrug before thumbing through more of Peter's notebook. “Who was that you were talking to, anyway?”
Returning to the computer, you respond, “Melissa Yates. She was warning me of your inevitable cheating.” Harry’s brows furrow, annoyed at the character assassination. “Apparently, Heather has a reputation around here. She called it ‘part of the initiation’ then said she hoped I knew what I was getting involved in.”
“If only she knew,” Harry snorts. “Y'know, all you have to do is admit you're jealous, and I'll stop talking to her.”
“Why would I do that?” you ask sharply. “She's probably got a lot of information and she's interested in you. We should use that while we can. But try not to sleep with her too soon because-”
“Because you'll be jealous?” Harry teases.
“Because she'll drop you once she's done with you.”
“Ouch!” he exclaims, placing his hand over his chest in mock hurt. “You realize I have feelings, right?”
“Feelings for her, that's obvious,” you grumble, checking back on the program's progress. Eighty-nine percent.
“Oh my god,” Harry laughs, shaking his head incredulously. “Do you even hear yourself?”
Tired of being put on the defensive, you retaliate. “Y'know, I didn't say a damn word all week about your bullshit attitude, so you’re being a dick coming after me over one night.”
“So you are jealous,” he smirks, propping his chin on his palm to stare at you gleefully.
Embarrassment floods through you at your slip up, accidently implying something you didn’t mean. The only salve for your shame is to inflict a bigger wound. “No, Sam, I'm not, because I’m not stupid enough to get my feelings involved.”
Harry scoffs at you, his body stiffening in agitation at your name calling. “You don't get feelings involved? Then what's all this?” You roll your eyes. “No, just because you can't figure out your emotions, doesn't mean you can lash out at me.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t tell m-”
You grab Harry’s arm, your nails biting into his skin to get him to stop. From the hallway, drawing nearer, you can barely make out Peter's voice. Your eyes meet for a moment before you both leap into action, silently cleaning up the space to look as if undisturbed. You pull the USB despite only ninety-six percent completion as Harry hides the notebook inside the podium base of the Nike statue. With a few careful adjustments, the place looks exactly as it had before you came in.
“Okay,” you whisper, adjusting your dress, lowering the neckline to show off more cleavage. “I'll distract him, and you can sneak away.”
“And how's this,” Harry indicates your newly exposed skin, “any different to what’s going on between Heather and me?”
Stepping up to him, you stare him down, a darkness overtaking your voice. “Because I have something to offer Peter.”
Harry's lips crash into yours, his body pushing against yours, forcing you back until you hit the bookcase behind you. Your surprise and frustration manifests through the kiss as you twist his shirt in your fists, tugging him closer. Biting his lower lip until he gasps in pain gives you the opportunity to lick into his mouth. Tugging on your hair, elicits a moan from you that he swallows. His hips grind against yours, slamming you back, the books jostling on their shelves. Harry pulls away and dips his head into your neck, lips traveling up and down, memorizing which spots makes you shiver. Pulling your dress up, you hook your leg around his, dragging him closer, pressing his crotch closer to yours.
Downstairs, you had to relent to all those advances, grin and bear it as the guests took what they wanted, unable to refuse them. Here, in Harry’s arms, you’re able to fight back, to push back against him. Your nails scratch, your teeth nip, it’s aggressive but he takes it all with little grunts and whimpers of pain, goading you on further. When his hands trail towards places you don’t want him to explore, you redirect him, guiding his hand to cup under your breast or squeeze your hip. He follows your lead, stays within your unspoken boundaries, grinding, pulsing, stuttering against you, eliminating any space between the two of you.
“Say my name,” Harry demands between kisses. You don't appease him, digging your nails into his shoulder and sighing in relief as his grinding hits your crotch in deeply satisfying motions. Growling, Harry stops his movements, grasping your jaw in his hand so he can force you to look at him. “I told you to say my name.”
“Sa-Sam,” you gasp, frantically rubbing your hips against his, desperate for him to move again.
“No, say my name.” His pupils are blown out, which makes his hard gaze that much darker, more intense.
Your eyes widen, brows creasing in concern at what he's asking from you. “Wha- I can't,” you try to dissuade him but when he bucks his hips, his hardening cock rocks against your core, drawing out a loud moan. “Oh, Go-”
“Oh, shit.”
Harry pulls back enough to look over his shoulder and glare at Peter in the doorway, covering you protectively with his body. Mortified, you unwrap your leg from around Harry, fixing your dress so it hangs normally. You’re ashamed, not because Jessica was caught making out with her husband at his boss’s house, but because you were just caught practically dry humping your partner in your target’s library.
Peter clears his throat, looking between the two of you with disdain. “Sorry, I didn’t know who was in here. This room is off limits,” he says, a simmering anger layered underneath his calm tone. Behind him, a woman in a bodycon red dress attempts to stabilize herself on her high heels, holding onto Peter’s arm for balance, too drunk to keep herself up.
“Our bad,” you squeak, walking around Harry’s body to face Peter. “We're so sorry, we didn’t mean to intrude.” You start briskly walking to the door, expecting Harry to be trailing right behind you. You turn sideways, passing by Peter, keeping your distance and avoiding his gaze, playing up Jessica’s embarrassment. Looking back at your partner, you see him walk by Peter with the largest shit-eating grin you’ve seen, making direct eye contact with his boss before slinging his arm around your waist, leading you away. Once you’re both out of the way, Peter drags the drunk woman into the room and slams the door behind them, causing them to rattle in their frame.
Seeing no one else in the hallway, you throw your elbow harshly into Harry’s side, causing him to quietly groan and step away from you. “What the hell was that?” you indignantly whisper.
Rubbing the spot where a bruise is definitely forming, Harry lifts his shoulder on the opposite side. “Improvising?”
“Impro- Are you- You can’t-” Afraid to attract any onlookers with your arguing, instead of words, you growl in frustration to punctuate the end of your sentence. Your body convulses with waving arms and a violent shake of your head, expelling the anger out of your body, before recollecting yourself with a heavy sigh.
Harry coughs next to you, unsuccessfully covering up his snickers of laughter that dissolve into full on giggles when you accost him with a glare.
“Shut up,” you scold him, looking behind you to keep an eye out for anyone who could overhear. Your chastising is comedic to Harry, covering his mouth with his hand to mute his persistent laugh. And maybe it's the exhaustion of the night, maybe it's the adrenaline from being caught, or maybe it's your recently activated hormones, but seeing Harry's eyes crinkle in joy, mimicking your arm wiggles and falling into another bout of laughter, his dimples pinching into his cheeks, you can’t stop the snort tickling at the back of your throat. Then another. Suddenly, you're both tumbling into each other in a fit of quiet giggles that leaves you two gasping for breath. You go to shush him at the same time he does and you're both lost in more laughter.
This moment of bliss, this space where the two of you exist, holding on to one another, is yours. It's not important for the mission, it's not something to report on, it's just a breath of time saved for you and Harry to indulge in.
Footsteps on the stairwell break the moment, reality crashing its icy waves over the both of you. Three men walk around the two of you, ignoring your residual tittering, debating poker hands.
Clearing your throat, you look up at Harry. “I think I should head home and go over the deals I've made tonight,” you say, patting your pocket where the USB mostly full of Peter's computer information is safely stored. “Would you like to come home with me?”
Harry raises his brows, smirking at you. “Are you inviting me back to your place?”
“No,” you chuckle, shaking your head at his crazed interpretation of your words.
“Wow, you better be careful, I’m going to get a big head knowing my wife likes me enough to wanna take me home.”
You roll your eyes, grinning at his stupidity. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” you question, turning to walk down the stairs. Harry’s arm wraps around your shoulder, pulling you back into his side before falling into step alongside you.
“All in all, I'd call this a great first date.”
Heather doesn't pretend to be enthralled in Langdon's story, sure that it's one she's heard before. Plus, she's learned that if she looks at Langdon for too long, his wife will stare daggers in Heather's direction for the rest of the night. It's not Heather's fault Melissa can hold a grudge withstanding years, nor is it her fault Langdon never followed his oaths. Heather accepted the role she had been handed, one rumor spiraled into a lifestyle she had to adopt.
It was nice, no longer acting like their stories were interesting, or forming false friendships with women who assumed the worst about her, but she felt so lonely. Men wanted her for one thing, and their wives hated her instead of the ones who broke their vows.
Sam was different, though. He was interested in her, most men were, but Sam wasn't solely focused on how quickly he could fall into bed with her. Their conversations twirled around art, philosophy, literature, even dipping into their favorite places to travel, and hobbies they both wanted to get back into, stuff she was never asked about. Sam listened to her gossip about the guests at the party, offering no judgement, letting her share theories as to why the Eastman couple opened up their marriage or the mysterious reason why Quincey Cooke only shows up to these events when the Umbridge family are in town.
Two moments stood out to Heather as odd, though. First, she attempted to pry into Sam's marriage, testing his loyalty. The little he offered at her questions, she believed, was indicative of a failing relationship. Her joke about Jessica's naivety, however, landed sourly. Sam nearly walked away but Heather wasn't above begging for a man's attention. She usually didn't need to, though.
The second weird thing was when Jessica left the party, wiping her eyes and disappearing upstairs and Sam immediately got up to follow her. No matter what Heather said, Sam was determined to go check on his wife. He didn't even promise to come back to her, the usual line men left her with. The longer he was gone, the more it seemed like he wouldn't be coming back, and Heather would only give herself a couple minutes to sit pathetically alone, away from the rest of the party.
Now, she lingers around a group, arms crossed across her chest, barely paying attention, regretting chasing off her date earlier… God, what was his name? She wasn't looking forward to another night alone.
Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Jessica's green dress coming down the stairs, and she lets herself feel a tiny fleet of hope that Sam might join her again when she sees his arm wrapped around his wife's shoulders. The two of them share twin grins, their eyes shyly glancing at each other like a budding puppy love. Sam leads them towards the front door, weaving them around the other guests without stopping to say goodbye. Briefly, over Jessica's head, Sam's emerald eyes meet Heathers. She waves at him, wiggling her fingers, saying goodbye but leaving an opening for him to exploit. Heather expects something, some reaction from him.
But Sam ignores her. He looks down at his wife with a soft smile and he leaves the party with her tucked nicely into his side.
Heather feels confused and a little hurt. Men have turned her down before, it’s inevitable, but she’s not used to them leaving hand-in-hand, giggling with their wives, especially not after spending most of the night ignoring said wife.
No matter. Heather may be rattled, but ultimately, she always gets what she wants.
He looked like he belonged in movies. The kind of movies that had Oscar nominations and played in theaters for months on end. Truthfully, he looked like he was the next contender to play James Bond.
“Hi,” he breathed, stepping through the threshold and closing the door behind him. His shoulder bag, which seemed to carry his laptop, slipped off the slope of his shoulder, and he effortlessly used his thumb to put it back. And when he spoke, she registered that he really could play James Bond. The British accent was noticeable, with traces of American undertones like he had been living in the United States for a little too long.
OR
Harry is a sleeper cell spy and Y/N can't help but fall for someone like him. It's natural, right?
WORD COUNT: 2.5k
For the majority of Y/N’s life, she has been an afterthought.
She was constantly picked last for teams in P.E., her friends in elementary school would conveniently forget to invite her to their birthday parties, and one time her parents texted her ‘Happy Birthday’ a week after her birthday already passed. Maybe it was her fault for never correcting them, or maybe she could have been more vocal about how her friends were constantly hurting her feelings, but she never was… It just wasn’t something she was comfortable with.
It used to bother her a lot; she wore the feelings of abandonment on her sleeve and the pain was etched into every fine line on her face. Now, she was so desensitized to the casual rejection that when someone forgot to text her happy birthday, or her parents realized they hadn’t called her back in quite some time, she’d just shrug her shoulders and let it roll off her back.
However, this defense mechanism started becoming a problem when she realized that it was nearly impossible for her to form a meaningful connection with anyone anymore. In college, she ignored the invitations from her flatmates to attend parties because she knew eventually they would grow tired of her. It was better for them to invite her and allow Y/N to decline the offers on her own terms, rather than get attached to a friend group and watch them get annoyed at the way she stuck to them like glue— she would become bothersome and hard to get rid of. This way, she could decline their offers and be somewhat of an enigma. She wasn’t weird, she was aloof. It was her social barrier, and the only thing that really kept her together.
When she thought back to high school, her throat squeezed tightly. Once everyone realized what a pushover she was, they would take advantage of her until they had no use for her anymore. The most haunting memory is when she had her first boyfriend, whom she dated for a total of three months, before she had found out he was getting paid by the other friends in their group. After that, she chose to eat lunch in the bathroom stall, which seemed pathetic, but it was much more comfortable than anyone probably expected.
Why her friends paid someone to date her, she never got a true answer for. After some sleuthing, the only answers she got was that they ‘thought it would be funny,’ and it ‘worked as distraction.’
Distraction for what? She didn’t think she could handle the answer, so she chose not to ask.
The guy who was being paid to take her out –good money, might she add– went to a private high school with Y/N, surrounded by rich folks and she didn’t fall short of that bracket either. She thinks maybe that’s why her parents are so… The way they are. No time for her when they were cycling in and out of their workplace, grossing high profits. He explained that he felt really bad for the whole ordeal, and wasn’t usually that much of a jerk. Her jaw twitched at his explanation, and before she could even filter the question, it had sprang out of her mouth.
“Did you ever… Did you ever grow feelings for me?” Y/N asked, kicking herself because she decided as soon as the question was out on the table, she didn’t actually want to know the answer.
By the way his face contorted, and his eyes were shining with a glimpse of sympathy, she knew she had her answer and immediately collected her things. As calmly as she could, she walked out of her school library and never talked to those friends again.
For weeks, she begged her parents to remove her from school and let her do independent studies. She was smart enough for it. Time and time again, they told her no. So she did the only thing she possibly could and buried her nose in her textbooks. Determined to get into the best school she could, receive a job offer far away from her hometown, and get the hell out of where she grew up.
And that’s just how Y/N graduated from college with her degree in accounting, got hired at a semi-big corporation that owned quite a few smaller businesses, and somehow became best friends with the company owner. The CEO was older, nearly her dad’s age, and though she had sworn off friends and enjoyed her reclusive lifestyle, there was something about Danny that was different.
Sure, it was a little weird that she was just out of college and her best friend was a 50-something year old corporate executive, and maybe he didn’t realize that he was her best friend, but he never forgot her birthday.
It was like Danny was acutely aware of Y/N’s poor experiences with friends, and her unique inability to connect with people on an emotional level, so he met her where she was comfortable. He didn’t push or prod, but he kept her close enough to know she wasn’t alone, but at a far enough distance that Y/N was comfortable with the relationship.
And he invited her to his family barbecues. The first time Y/N went to one of those barbecues, she ate so much potato salad, she swore she wouldn’t touch it ever again.
Sometimes during her day, Danny would drop a few envelopes off on her desk and tell her that he needed them transported to his other facilities and given to their executives. It started off small, but then became a big part of her job. He even gave her a raise for all the time she took out of her day to drop by his other facilities. Was she overqualified? Yes, absolutely. But sometimes it was nice to take a break from crunching numbers and get out of the office for a while. By the time Danny realized she didn’t mind doing the silly little tasks he would assign her, he had grown fond of her and utilized her noninvasive personality to his advantage.
Some of the other facilities were… Sketchy to say the least. Often in the heart of a crime-riddled downtown area, or occupied by strangers that didn’t look too friendly. Regardless, she always completed her tasks without so much of a complaint coming from her. Anything to keep Danny happy, she’d do. Especially considering the fact that he had tucked her under his wing. If that meant she had to go to a couple places that made her semi-uncomfortable a couple times a month, then she would do it.
As time passed, Danny grew more open with her. Though he never explained why certain parts of his company were in weird spots (and sometimes so far away), he had made it seem like business was business— no matter the location. It wasn’t until the Christmas season that Danny asked Y/N what her plans were. When she explained that her family lived on the other side of the country and wasn’t too keen on holiday celebrations, he asked if she would come to Christmas dinner.
So she did.
And when she got there and realized there were multiple gifts under the tree with her name on them from Santa (Danny and Santa, they were good friends, he had told her), she nearly teared up at the thought that someone… remembered her.
“Hey Y/N,” Danny poked his head into her office, interrupting her stream of thoughts. He usually came in first thing in the morning to let her know he was there but today was a little different. “We’re hiring another accountant.”
“Did someone leave?” Y/N swiveled in her chair, tracing her fingers on the invisible pattern atop her glass desk.
“No, we just need some more support. There are no more available cubicles, so we were wondering if we could put him in your office for the time being. Until there is some space for him?” Danny asked, which was nice of him, because he really didn’t need to do that. He owned the place after all.
“Of course,” Y/N said, “I’d be happy to share this space.”
“Great,” Danny said, and opened the door to allow the maintenance guys to carry in a desk setup meant for the new guy. Y/N could only laugh, because Danny knew she wouldn’t say no.
After the maintenance guys were done putting the desk back together and moving around some of the stuff that was set up for convenience (a printer just for Y/N so she didn’t have to make her way down to the copy room, a table full of sweet treats, and her own coffee maker), Y/N got back to work. Smiling at the maintenance guys, she thanked them on their way out.
It wasn’t but an hour later the new guy was knocking on the door, the blinds concealing her from seeing him through the window. She jumped slightly, not quite used to so many people knocking on her door and entering the space throughout the day.
“Come in,” Y/N squeaked out. The door knob twisted, revealing the new guy in all his glory.
Y/N couldn’t help her jaw become unhinged from the joints. He was beautiful— the kind of beautiful that made her insides turn and mouth water. He was wearing a black turtleneck, tucked into a pair of gray slacks. His hair, which seemed to be curly, was gelled back for the most part, but the subtleness of curls were peeking through.
When he looked at her, it was with a gleam of mischief, like he was bound to get her into some sort of trouble. His cologne was a warm vanilla and musk, wafting toward her even though he was a good twenty feet away. As Y/N studied his face— the beautiful crook of his nose, the deep green of his eyes, the perfect indentations of smile lines— she tried to place where he might belong. That face wasn’t the face of an accountant.
Quite the opposite, actually.
He looked like he belonged in movies. The kind of movies that had Oscar nominations and played in theaters for months on end. Truthfully, he looked like he was the next contender to play James Bond.
“Hi,” he breathed, stepping through the threshold and closing the door behind him. His shoulder bag, which seemed to carry his laptop, slipped off the slope of his shoulder, and he effortlessly used his thumb to put it back. And when he spoke, she registered that he really could play James Bond. The British accent was noticeable, with traces of American undertones like he had been living in the United States for a little too long.
Y/N felt underdressed as she looked at him, knowing very well that she was in the appropriate accountant attire. He was just so pretty, she thought maybe she needed to put on some lip gloss or accessorize a bit better. Maybe she didn’t feel underdressed, maybe she just didn’t feel beautiful the way he was. Sometimes when Y/N saw someone who was all too beautiful, it would trigger the memory of her fake high school boyfriend. If she was beautiful, like the new guy, that entire situation would have never happened to her.
He smiled, a breathy chuckle releasing from his throat. Approaching the desk, he held his hand out, “I’m Harry.”
She stood up briefly, extending her own hand out and clasping it in his. His hand was big and slightly cold from the atmospheric river happening outside. The pitter-patter of the rain had gotten increasingly stronger through each day of January. The drops hitting the windows were almost soothing throughout the day.
“Your desk is over there,” Y/N motioned to the desk on the opposite side of the room. The more she looked at it, the more she realized she should have asked the maintenance guy if they could rearrange the feng shui. It was going to be terribly awkward sitting across from Harry, a side by side situation would probably be more pleasant for the both of them. “The maintenance guys put it in today.”
“I’ll have to thank them when I see them,” Harry offered a lopsided grin, settling his bag on his new desk.
“They’re pretty great,” Y/N told him, tucking herself back into her desk. Small talk was always awkward for her. In fact, she would much rather sit in silence than make mindless chatter with people who probably didn’t actually care about what she had to say.
“Why are you the only accountant that gets your own office? Are you the head accountant?” Harry was taking things out of his bag, placing random photos on the desk. Y/N couldn’t help but eye them, her curiosity constantly getting the best of her. Did he have a family? Wife? Kids? Maybe a husband?
“No,” she let out a soft laugh, “I guess I’m just Danny’s favorite.”
“How did you become his favorite?” Harry’s smile matched the tone of the conversation. His questions were inquisitive and threw her a bit off guard as not many people inquired about her life, but it was nice to actually hear her voice as she often stifled herself.
“I actually… don’t really know.”
“I’ve got a few reports that I need to take care of, so I’ll leave you alone. If my typing is too loud or you can hear the gears in my brain turning, please let me know.”
“Okay, you let me know too. The past couple months I’ve been in here by myself, and I can be loud on my own.”
He looked up, cocking a brow.
“No, I meant that— never mind.”
After their first encounter, Harry and Y/N didn’t really talk. Weeks passed with Harry coming into work, doing his job, and then leaving. Sometimes he would ask Y/N about her life, but for the most part he remained quiet, gently dodging any question Y/N threw at him.
Y/N couldn’t say that she didn’t like the silence. Growing up lonely made her accustomed to this kind of environment. She was a more effective worker when she wasn’t distracted by the chit chat of others, and even though she didn’t really know Harry, it was kind of nice to have another person sharing her space.
It wasn’t until two months of Harry working there that Y/N had run into him outside of a flower shop of all places. As the start of spring rallied in, she decided it was time to pick out a spring-centered floral arrangement for her apartment. Fluttering through the multiple flower options (turns out so many beautiful flowers were in season during the Spring), she heard a man clear his throat behind her.
“Y/N?” That familiar British accent was directly behind her. As she turned around, she took in his casual appearance, which was a drastic difference from the clothing he sported in the office. Trading slacks for linen pants and a tie for an oversized t-shirt, Harry looked comfortable and in his element in this flower shop.
“Oh,” Y/N breathed out, her face feeling hot. She wasn’t sure why she was getting so flustered, being in a flower shop was a perfectly normal place to be. “What are you doing here?”
Harry offered a small smile, the smirk etched onto his face like it was meant to be there. It was very obvious that he knew he made her feel flustered, and he couldn’t say that he was not used to making girls a bit weak in the knees. As cocky as it sounded, he knew he was a conventionally attractive guy. And for some reason, a girl like Y/N was like bait on a hook. Maybe it was the shyness or the awkward laughter that always followed behind her sentences, but it was clear Harry was more keen on getting to know her than he originally let on.
“Well, getting flowers. You see, typically, when someone enters a flower shop, they have one goal in mind,” Harry chuckled softly, the sarcasm dripping from his tone like honey from a hive. The words seemed direct, but they were playful, meaning to make Y/N more comfortable with his presence.
With one hand, Harry grabbed the beautiful floral arrangement Y/N had concocted. Tulips, roses, and daisies made the base of the bouquet. Harry looked around, finding some baby’s breath and wildflowers to fill in the sparse areas of the arrangement. With wide eyes, Y/N watched him, shocked at his eye for florals.
“There,” Harry said softly, “Now it’s perfect.”
And that’s how Harry ended up buying her a bouquet of flowers— the first time anyone had ever gotten her flowers. That was the start of Y/N meeting Harry. Little did she know, their blooming friendship (love story?) began with deception.
disclaimer; contents are subject to change once fully edited and posted
cw; swearing, spy!reader x spy!harry, enemies to lovers??
••••••••
“I don’t care what the conditions are, Terrance! I’m not doing it! Get someone else for it this time.” Y/N barked, doing her best to keep in stride with her boss, who regrettably ruined her otherwise great morning with quite possibly the worst news of her life.
“There is no one else, dammit! You two are the most qualified for this exact job. You’re doing it.” The director glared, “You and Styles both cryin’ about it every morning, I don’t care! If there was another way, don’t you think I’d try and spare myself the agony of hearing you two argue?” he finished, practically out of breath, the poor thing. She rolled her eyes at the mention of his name, and she was sure she was scowling, with the way people were scrambling to get out of the way.
“That’s all good and well, but I am physically not going to do it.” She reiterated, effectively putting her foot down on the matter once they reached the debriefing hall.
“I had a feeling it’d come down to this,” Terrance sighed, and subtly nodded to a few others behind her. “Sorry, Y/N, it’s only for a little while.”
“What are you tal- Hey!” She shrieked as she was grabbed and cuffed to the chair. “Come on! I’ll get out of these!” She huffed, tugging at the silicone covered chains.
“Yes, but it’ll hold you till he gets here.” He answered before stepping out into the hallway and shut the heavy door between them. Her jaw fell open, before anger taking over her, a growl leaving her lips as she pulled at the cuffs. “Cool it, cool it…” She whispered to herself, relaxing as best she could, what with her fists clenched tightly.
She couldn’t believe this, of all the people that work in this god forsaken building, not a single one of them could train well enough to give Harry some better competition as number two. (Because let's face it, she's number one because she is the best, and if they couldn’t beat out Harry, they certainly weren't coming very close to her spot.) And now, because the insufferable prick can’t ever keep his mouth shut, she’s got to be the one cuffed to a chair that's bolted into the damn floor. After all the hard work, and dedication she’s given the agency, everything she’s done to keep money in their pockets, and this is how they treat her? They let one stray dog in, just to muck it up. All the mistakes he’s made that they’ve had to rip her out of her home or training to fix his problems, now they want them to double a mission together? She’d sooner quit.
——
“No, no fucking way.” Harry huffed, slowing his steps down the hallway once he realised he recognised the head of hair waiting in the room they were headed to. “You’re absolutely insane if you think there's any way I’m agreeing to this.” He argued, extending his arm out to gesture to the door. “This isn’t up for discussion, Agent.” The director calmly said, as he had already prepared for another round. Terrance took a steady breath before scanning his badge and the door separating them opened again. There she was, legs crossed over one another, looking totally unamused as she sat at the table while twirling around the cuffs she managed herself out of. “Oh, look, visiting hours.” She deadpanned, rolling her eyes. “What, he doesn’t get cuffs?”
“I don’t believe this! You can’t seriously tell me that no one here is better than her besides me?” He huffed and Y/N rolled her eyes, tossing the cuffs to the table. “No one here is better than me, period. You’re nowhere close to what I bring in.” A snicker falling past her lips as she watched Harry get visibly worked up. “You took out one man, and you think we all have to bow down to you !” Y/N laughed, pleased at his reaction. “It wasn’t one man, it was the man, and there’s no rea-,” She started before the director shut the argument down. “S’enough already. I’d get rid of both of you if there were anyone better. Fact of the matter is, for some reason, your competitiveness against one another, makes the other better. Christ, y’don’t even know what you have to do yet.” Terrance sighed, pinching the nerves at the top of his nose after the pair glared again at one another.
“Now, are we ready to listen?”
——
“That’s even worse than before, T!” She cried, bringing her hands to her face. “We’ll never be able to pass off as a loving couple, are you crazy?!” Harry groaned, “We’ll be killed.”
“Speak for yourself, m’not stupid enough to get myself killed. It’ll be you that does it because you can’t keep y’mouth-,” She was seething, but thankfully the director stepped in once again with a slam of the rather hefty dossier on the table. “That is the brief, moving on.” He breathed, going to the screen to pull up the pictures. “I don’t care how you do it, when you do it, where you do it, just don’t use a gun. Ballistics tells too much about our whereabouts. Locate, and disarm the bomb, Harry, and Y/N, hack into his servers after the two of you infiltrate. Planes ready, pack up and go. It’ll be a while.”
“Terran-“ “Wait a second!” The two spoke at once, trying their best to squeeze in their complaints and concerns in a last ditch effort.
“Go! Get out of here, you’ve given me a headache in the fifteen minutes you've been around each other. Argue on the plane and annoy the pilot for all I care. Just, don’t kill each other.” The director left quickly, desperate to get away from the ticking time bomb as fast as he could.
———
After the initial wave of disappointment ebbed away, she decided she’d better get to packing and quickly, if she was going to catch the flight. “Move,” She huffed, rolling her eyes at him as he continued to stand in the way of the door. “You move.” He breathed back, shouldering past her as he grabbed the rather weighty accordion file that held all the information about their mission. After briefly turning through a few pages, he glanced up to see that she had already started down the hall. Her strides quick and strong but focused; one of her angry walks. “Wait!” He called, jogging after her until he caught up. “Y’really gonna leave without even looking at it?” He asked in near disbelief, it was very unlike her to not want to know everything.
She turned the corner sharply, leaving Harry to stumble as he missed the turn. After correcting, he stopped at her desk, waiting for his answer as she rummaged through the drawers. Finally, her head snapped up at him as if questioning what he was still doing there. “Well?” Harry repeated while holding the file up, frustrated that she’d completely ignored him. “S’what the fucking plane is for, Harry. Of course m’not spending 2 hours on a plane, then driving another 5 and a half without some reading material.” Oh. Harry kept quiet, grumbling some sort of a ‘whatever’ before going to collect his own belongings to pack up.
••••••
(there’s the sneakerrr, i literally have been having the hardest time NOT thinking about these two because i’ve been in a very argumentative mood, call it the gemini in me but it is what it is)
summary: you and harry are spies on an assignment to pretend to be a married couple in order to take down a drug trafficking ring. the only problem? you two can’t stand each other.
warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, knifeplay, breathplay (choking), slapping, fingering, phone sex (sort of); enemies to lovers, one bed, fake dating
song inspo.: death on two legs (dedicated to ...) - queen / back chat - queen / you’re so vain - carly simon
word count: 19.5k
You can practically feel Harry’s anger simmering beside you, and you’re tired of it.
He’s been acting like a child since you got on the plane, his eyes narrowed and venomous and steam practically blowing out of his ears as though he’s on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and you’re sure if looks could kill you’d be dead a million times over again from all the staredowns he’d been trying to initiate. And you’re used to this, for the most part, but it doesn’t make you feel any less annoyed as he huffs beside you, flicking through the file on his lap.
And - look. You don’t like Harry. You can hardly even tolerate him, most of the time, and the only times you manage to be near him without gagging is when you’re on missions. Usually he’s the same way, pushing aside the mutual disdain you’ve shared from day fucking one when there’s goals to be accomplished and targets to take down but he’s just sitting here like an angry log, thumbing noisily through papers as you swipe through your phone.
He’s looking for attention, Mark would tell you - your boss is the epitome of coolness, desperate for you and Harry to get along because of his tendency to force you together on missions - and that is true. You’re just as pissed as he is and you aren’t making a show of it. No, he’s an attention seeking crybaby, and you won’t give him what he craves. Won’t even look at him.
The plane dips a bit, then, and your stomach lurches, grabbing at the armrest in between you two where Harry’s elbow rests, and he jerks it into his side as though you’d burned him. You scoff, then, the pretense of faking casualness abandoned as fast as you’d stuck to it, and you can sense him rolling his eyes at the noise.
“For Fuck’s sake,” you huff, leaning to the side so you can stare at him as you roll your eyes pointedly, and he mimics the movement. “What are you so whiny about?”
“M’not whiny,” Harry insists in a tone that’s strikingly similar to the whine he claims he doesn’t have, and you sigh before reaching over, snatching the file off of his lap. “Hey - I was readin’ that!”
“Really?” you inquire, shifting so your back is to the man next to you and he can’t read the words on the page you’re squinting at. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were just sitting there huffing and rolling your eyes like a baby.” After a moment where he doesn’t respond, you risk a glance backwards and are met with the back of his head full of curls as he stares out the window at the passing sunset as you whiz through the sky. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, hmm? Did Mark not put enough into the budget for hair gel and dirty shoes?”
“Oh, shut up,” he says in a wildly mature way of response, and you can hardly resist the urge to smirk at it. “F’the record, m’mad that I have t’do another mission with you.”
You nod, trailing your finger along the line of words detailing aspects about the target you know you’ll have to utilize later - he has four cats. He and his wife are on the brink of divorce. He has two daughters, and he doesn’t speak to either of them. His name is Vincent Carfield, and, boy, does he sound like a real catch - you’re so focused on reading about him that you hardly register that Harry’s started speaking again.
“Wish Mark would realize m’good enough to do shit like this on my own. Don’t need you t’come around an’ pretend to be my - my girlfriend. S’stupid.”
“Well, if you were good enough, I would be at home with cucumbers on my eyes right now instead of reading about the leader of a drug trafficking ring -”
“God, you’re a bitch -”
“And you’re an asshole -”
“Fuck you - m’calling Mark.”
You snort, leaning back in your seat as Harry fumbles in his bag at his feet for his tablet, and he shakily sets it up on his lap, tapping through the screen until he gets to the FaceTime app. “Real mature, Har, going to tattle to Mark.”
“God, not everything’s about you, narcissist - half hour out, need a debrief.”
You crane your neck to lean in front of him and look out the window, and - sure enough - you can already tell that you’re getting closer, plane dipping slowly lower and it wouldn’t be perceptible to you if he hadn’t told you. Harry’s always been a tad bit more observant than you, though you wouldn’t confess that to him if your life depended on it.
Mark answers Harry’s call within mere seconds - he’s always on high alert when you guys call, especially when you’re off on missions together - part of you suspects he’s always waiting for a call that one of you killed the other. “Hello, lovebirds,” he chirps, the pure image of relaxation as he adjusts his tie, shifting in his seat - you and Harry both roll your eyes at his nickname for the pair of you. “Surprised to see you haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out.”
“Wish I did,” you mutter beneath your breath, and Harry glares at you out of the corner of his eye.
“Anyway,” Mark says, and you know he heard what you said judging from the ghost of a smile on his pale face, but he brushes past it. “When you land, you’ll have around an hour to get settled into the hotel before dinner. I’ve sent you the address to the restaurant - the target is eating there with his wife, most likely to discuss their divorce, so he’ll be feeling vulnerable and insecure -”
“And that’s where I come in,” you finish, trailing your nail across the fine printed page which holds the plans the three had deliberated over for two weeks prior - compared to most of your missions it was an extraordinarily short amount of time to plan but none of you could foresee this one going anything other than disgustingly easy. If you pull through, you could be home by the end of the weekend.
“And that’s where you come in,” Mark affirms, thick rimmed glasses mirroring the image of you and Harry that he’s seeing on his screen. “Find any way to touch him - pretend to trip - and plant the audio tracker on his jacket.” You nod, and Harry drops his head against the seat with a soft sigh that nearly makes you turn and throttle him but you hold back, fingers tensing as though itching for a throat to grab. “Then you guys go back to the hotel, hold back from slaughtering each other, and listen in - he’s staying at the room next to yours.”
If this situation were occurring a year ago in your first few weeks of working as a spy perhaps you’d marvel at the seeming coincidence of Mark just happening to get you a hotel room right next to your target - but your one-year anniversary working has just come up and, as it so happens, you know he can make just about anything happen by pulling the right strings. And staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, is the perfect talking point for dinner - you’re already storing it in the back of your mind to bring up in conversation when you manage to get the tracker on his jacket -
“ - and, look, guys, I know you don’t particularly like each other,” Mark is saying when your attention snaps back to him, and Harry snorts. It’s the understatement of the century - you almost want to laugh with him. “It’s just really important that you sell yourselves as a couple. I don’t care what you have to do - share a drink or hold hands - but he needs to see you as a couple. All of his mistresses have been seemingly happily married - he’ll be more inclined to get closer with ____ if he sees you’re in a good relationship. Then, Harry, of course, can explore his hotel room - snuff out anything suspicious.”
You nod but Harry seems less convinced - his brow arches as his arms cross over his chest, and you glance over at him with confusion written over your features. “M’confused,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “She’s gonna fu - have an affair wit’ him, then?”
God, we fucking talked about this, you want to shout at him, to shake his shoulders until he’s dizzy. If you paid attention while we planned instead of sitting there whining that you don’t go on missions by yourself because nobody goes on missions by themselves unless they’ve been here for nearly 10 years and you’ve barely scraped three -
Mark is more patient. He just shrugs, fingers tapping away at the keyboard connecting to his screen. “Maybe - maybe not. Depends how vulnerable she can get him without resorting to sexual means.”
“Don’t think I’ll have a problem with that,” you can’t resist saying, popping the ‘p’ in problem as you smugly smirk, scratching your nails against the smooth paper you’d been reading as Harry glares at you, seemingly affronted. “Only had to resort to getting down and dirty with a target once - that asshole mob boss - everyone else is just dying to tell me their juicy little secrets. Guess it’s a perk at being good at what you do, right, Har?”
“Oh, you’re such a -”
“Children, children,” Mark interrupts the beginning of Harry’s speech about what a cunt you are, holding up his age-worn palms with mock exasperation as he stares the two of you down. “Stay civil. I’ve just booked your reservation at this Italian restaurant called Fucina’s - it’s for 7, under Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson. Vincent Carfield and his wife have a reservation for 7:30 but have a tendency to arrive early. They requested seating in a more private area, as did I, so you should be able to hear their conversations -”
The conversation rolls on for another few minutes until the pilot announces that you’re landing in ten, and that’s Mark’s cue to sign off - with a fleeting inquiry about any questions the pair of you may have he’s gone, wishing you good luck and making you promise to call him after dinner once you’ve set up the tracker and begun listening to your mark. You don’t suspect you’ll forget to - you and Harry generally can’t be in an enclosed environment together for too long without having overwhelming desires to take each other out, and Mark balances you out. Eases the two of you, calms you down, even when you’re so angry at Harry you want nothing more than to stamp your feet on the ground and scream.
It’s how you feel now, a bit, as Harry shuts his tablet and shoves it back into his bag with a dramatic huff after Mark has signed off. He’s angry about something again, surely relating to you and the mission and how he constantly feels snubbed by Mark but, truthfully, as the plane dips lower and lower to the Earth, you find that you really, really, don’t care.
~~
The hotel room is, for all intents and purposes, fairly large. It’s nicer than a significant portion of the ones you two inhabit on missions and you should be grateful, toeing off your boots in the entrance of the suite, that it has a functioning kitchen and a bathroom with a door that closes and an L shaped couch facing the television (based on the description of the suite Mark had sent), but your mood has been entirely soured by Harry’s sore attitude during the drive from the airport to the hotel.
He drops his suitcase against the carpeted ground of the entrance, and it slams onto the ground so close to your sock-covered toes that you jump back, glaring at him as he pointedly ignores you and descends further into the hotel room, peeking his curly head into the kitchen and the bathroom. You watch him as you rest your suitcase against the wall, nudging his closer to the wall with your foot before following him, already tugging your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check for any new texts from your boss when -
“You’ve got t’be fucking kidding me.”
You arch your eyebrows, tilting your phone into your chest as you turn the corner into the main living area. And it’s nice, eyes wandering over the couch that Mark had told you about, and the TV mounted to the wall with a Roku connected to it that you’re sure you’ll take advantage of later tonight. The carpet is soft beneath your feet even through your socks, and the bed is nicely made, pillows fluffy and looking soft -
Bed.
Shit.
What a bastard, Mark is - booking a room with only one bed? And not even telling you two about it? God, you could kill him. You really could, and you will, as soon as you get back to headquarters and see his stupid bald head in person - you’ll throttle him. Or shoot him. Hell, you’ll even stab him.
“You’re taking the couch,” you tell Harry, and before he can protest you take a running start to leap onto the bed, plopping onto your back and tucking your arms beneath your scalp. “Looks real comfy, doesn’t it? The bed - not the couch. Couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Harry practically snarls, voice all venom and teeth, and he sits at the edge of the bed anyway, hands going up to loosen at the black tie wrapped tight around his neck. “So entitled - I’ll take the fucking bed. Been here longer than you, y’know - just ‘cause y’like t’act like you’re so good -”
“And yet,” you interrupt, bringing your foot up to kick at his side, and he turns around and glares at you, “I’m the one getting put on assignments with you, even though I’ve hardly been here a year. Oh, yeah, what’s that Mark told us? I was put on duty the quickest than anyone else after finishing my assignments?” You screw up your eyes as though trying to fact check yourself before nodding, smiling at the positively hateful expression on your partner’s face. “Guess I am good.”
He opens his mouth to reply and perhaps he assumes better of it - he simply rolls his eyes, pulling his tie off of his neck and dropping it on the ground beside him. For a moment you simply stare at him as he peels his jacket off, littering it on the floor in a similar fashion as his tie, until he’s merely donning a white button down and his black dress pants, hair messy and face light red.
Sometimes you do that - you watch him - because it’s nice to see him look so peaceful and silent when you’re used to spewing hatred back and forth. You could even be into him if he kept his mouth taped shut and promised to never make a single noise, but he would never comply with it - and you’re sure you’d find a reason to get pissed off at him if he didn’t speak.
You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him until he turns around, and your gazes lock, and you lift your eyebrows.
“Don’t stare at me,” Harry demands, backing up on the bed until his head rests on the pillow beside you - you turn your head to stare at him, affronted. “Told you - m’taking the bed. An’ m’gonna take a nap f’a half hour- already set the timer on m’phone - so you can either take the couch or sit here right beside me.”
You push yourself onto your elbows, glaring down at the man beside you who closes his eyes (rather smugly, you’ll add) and mimics your own previous position, arms tucked beside his head. “You dickhead.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m not moving.”
“Fine by me.”
“I’m gonna nap too -”
“Go ahead -”
“And I stretch out a lot when I sleep.”
“How ever will I handle it?”
You’ve seem to run out of responses, furrowing your eyebrows as Harry’s face settles into an expression of slight comfort and you wonder if he really has gone to bed, resting in the button down shirt and dress pants that he’s always itching to get out of at the end of the day. You’ve had to watch him undress with absolutely no shame in front of your far too many times for comfort, shoved into small hotel rooms together but at least they had two beds - you can hardly control your heart rate as you stare down at him.
(Because you’re angry, of course. Whenever he’s acting like a dumbass your heartbeat quickens to match the pace of a fucking freight train, and that’s nearly every time you’ve ever had to talk to him.)
After a moment you rest back on the bed beside him, head dangerously close to the center of the two pillows where you can feel Harry’s curls, spread upon his pillows, brushing against the sides of your temples. With every feel of his hair against your skin you feel your anger rising, and you exhale softly, pressing your palms to the top of your stomach as you listen to his steady breathing beside you.
He sounds too peaceful.
You wait nearly ten minutes before beginning your plan of attack, not nearly as meticulously planned as the ones you and Harry will employ later - you slowly begin to spread your legs out, feeling your calf brush against his foot, and your arms follow in a similar pattern. They stretch outwards, forearm thrown across his neck, and you can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against your skin but he doesn’t take the bait - doesn’t even move a muscle, and you can feel his even breathing against your arm.
For a second you wonder if he really is asleep. You’d be surprised.
It’s uncomfortable sleeping on your back and that’s your justification for rolling over onto your stomach, body halfway on top of Harry’s, chest pressed against his and face buried into the pillow beside him so your nose presses into his hair, softly inhaling the fruity shampoo he uses. Your arm lazily throws itself across his torso, leg nudging his until they fall off the bed, and he grunts.
“What th’fuck are y’doing?” Harry questions gruffly, voice just raspy enough to make you consider the very real possibility that he truly had fallen asleep, and you don’t respond. “Get off me, dumbass - tryin’ t’sleep.”
You remain silent. You work on steadying your breathing, faking sleep in the way that you’ve mastered over the past year (and a half, if you count the six months of training you’d done before beginning work) - on one of your earliest missions you’d pretended to be passed out in the back of a work party you’d seduced your way into with a tape recorder taped to your underboob and you’d been able to get enough recording of a conversation between two sleazy old men to support your hypothesis that their paper company was a front for a sex trafficking ring. You suspect this case should be likely the same, albeit easier and likely without the work party, and you’ll breeze through it like nobody’s business if it requires fake sleeping like you’re doing now.
“I know you’re not sleeping,” he correctly deduces, lifting his arm to slam it against your back entirely too hard and you nibble on your bottom lip to keep from making any type of noise at the slight pain the motion brings. “Get off me. Go t’the couch - stop being so stubborn.”
You mumble something incoherent under your breath, digging your face further into your pillow just to hear the way he hisses as you (un)intentionally tug at his hair. You feel his hands dig into your sides and before you can pull off of him he pushes you away with as much force as he can muster, and you’re send tossed to the other end of the bed, grappling at the duvet to stop yourself from slipping over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.
“Fuck,” you hiss, pushing yourself to sit out with your legs stuck straight out in front of you. With a glare directed towards the man opposite you you pull your legs back and push them towards him sharply, kicking him directly in his thigh, and his legs tumble off the bed, forcing him to sit up to maintain his balance. “Take that, dipshit.”
“Can’t you do better than that?” Harry questions, tone so mocking and condescending that you push yourself to his knees just as he rises to stand, the top button of his shirt mercifully coming undone, and you resist the urge to glance at it every so often. “C’mon, babe - if you’re gonna be a bitch -”
You push yourself to stand on top of the covers, taking a leap towards Harry where he stands on the other side of the bed, and your legs hook around his torso, effectively catching him by surprise as his hands immediately land on your waist, tugging you off of him and throwing you onto the bed with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you after this long of knowing him but it still knocks the breath out of you. His body hovers above you, pinning your arms above your head but you won’t have that - hook your legs around the back of his thighs and force him onto his back, throwing your legs over his torso as you mimic the position he’d trapped you in.
“1…” you begin counting tauntingly as you stare down at his face, reaching down to grab his wrists and hold them above his head, watching as he wriggles beneath you, his stomach tensing against your core. “2 … not even gonna put up a fight? What an agent you are -”
He practically growls at that, jerking his hands upward until they slip out of your grasp, nearly whacking you in the chin before he pushes himself up. You’re slammed into the headboard before you can even stop to think of your counterattack, back slamming into the wood as you drop your head forward to ensure you don’t knock your head into the wall, and Harry kneels in front of you with an exasperated, smug smirk, reaching up to press his forearm over your throat.
He’s not pressing hard - not enough to constrict your breathing at all, merely to hold your head in place - and after a second he begins counting just as you had - “1 … 2 … 3.”
You struggle uselessly against him until he reaches the final number, and a satisfied smile etches itself across his face before he pulls away, resting back on his knees to watch you huff before him before he begins crawling off the bed. “An’ I think that means that you, m’lady, have t’take the couch -”
You deliver one final swift kick to the back of Harry’s needs, and he tumbles off of the bed onto the ground with a cry, knees dropping onto the carpet and hands instinctively pressing to the wall he’d nearly slammed his head into. His position becomes one similar to a prayer, dropping his head forward against the wall with a dramatic groan.
“I won,” you tell him, flopping onto your back on the bed with a satisfied hum. “Get on the couch - reckon we still have a good 10 minutes left of our nap.”
Harry pushes himself to his feet in the blink of an eye, turning around with a look on his face that’s so serious you nearly want to double over in laughter, and as he plants his knees on the edge of the bed to resume the fight you’d had earlier, a sudden noise from the wall opposite your bed causes you to hold your palm out to him, effectively stopping him in his tracks.
“Shh!” you hiss, pushing yourself onto your elbows as Harry furrows his eyebrows, craning his neck towards the wall as though it’ll help him hear better. “D’you hear that?”
The two of you sit in silence for a moment, pondering the muffled noises coming from the hotel room next door. “Wha’?” Harry questions after a moment, voice hushed and soft, and you wait a moment before responding.
“The shower -” and, sure enough, just as the thought crosses your mind and the words leave your mouth you know that that’s the noise you’re hearing - the sound of water streaming onto the buff body of Vincent Carfield or perhaps his wife - “what time is it?”
“Uh -” Harry scrambles off the bed, digging through his backpack thrown on the ground until he can pull out his tablet, and the light shines on his face as he turns it on. “6:34.”
“Shit,” you hiss, rolling off the bed and practically darting out to the entrance hall where your suitcase rests against the wall, and you knock it to the ground and unzip it quickly. “Vincent’s already getting ready - we need to be at the restaurant soon. How fast can you get ready?”
“Pretty fast -” by the time Harry’s made his way into the entrance hall to dig through the suitcase he’d attempted to hit you with earlier you’ve peeled off your clothes, dropping them in a pile by your feet until you’re clad in only your bra and a pair of lace panties that leave entirely too little to the imagination, holster holding your knife firm against your thigh, and he freezes. “Christ. Can’t y’get a room f’that?”
“Oh, says the one who strips naked in the middle of the room every single night!” You shake your head, digging through your suitcase until you can find the black dress you’d packed specifically for dinner - it’s folded and mercifully wrinkle free, and you unzip the back to begin stepping into it. “Get ready. I’m going to do my makeup.”
“Make sure y’put a lot on - don’t wanna scare him off -”
“Shut up, Harry!”
~~
Fucina’s is dark and fancy, with hosts dressed in all black and waitresses in a similar fashion. You would almost feel out of place, your arm hooked with Harry’s as you’re led through the main dining room towards the back where your table is, but it’s not any more elegant than any of the other expensive restaurants and galas the pair of you have infiltrated together, and with your tight dress and his suit, you look like exactly the couple to eat and afford a restaurant like this.
“The pasta’s $65,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingertip down the laminated menu that you can hardly see in the dim light of the restaurant. You squint down at the page, bringing your head closer down to confirm that, yes, the fettuccine truly is that fucking expensive, and - not for the first time - you’re immensely grateful for the headquarters-mandated debit cards that you’ll use to pay for this. “Y’see that? The fettuccine?”
“Yeah,” you nod, though you’re not looking at the menu any longer - your eyes scan the restaurant behind Harry’s back, and of the three other tables in the private section Mark had requested for Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson to be in, none of them are occupied except yours. You and Harry had gotten there ten minutes late, much to Mark’s chagrin when you called him in the taxi, and the Carfields still hadn’t arrived. “Think I’m just gonna get a salad - not too hungry, anyway.”
“Me too.”
The conversation drains into a weird sort of silence - not awkward, and not malicious, either, as all of your silences usually are typically the result of one of you purposely ignoring the other. It’s harder to air out your disdain for each other when you’re supposed to be a couple that’s hopelessly in love in a high class restaurant, and you find that you don’t have much else to talk about with your partner besides discussing either the mission or whatever he’s doing that may be pissing you off at the moment -
He actually looks nice right now. Calm, collected - if you didn’t know better you’d say he looks like a pretty stand-up guy. The kind you’d take home to your mom.
“Why are y’lookin’ at me?” Harry questions, then, glancing up at you, and you internally curse at yourself - you always tend to forget how good he is at identifying someone staring at him.
“Just thinking about how much I prefer you when you aren’t speaking,” you tell him, voice dropping lower as a host clad in black leads an older couple into the area, sitting them at a table towards the window as Harry rolls his eyes. You lift your water glass to your lips, taking a slow sip as you attempt to inconspicuously decipher if the couple is your target -
“You’re being so obvious,” Harry hisses, voice soft like a breath and yet still retaining all the venom his words always tend to hold. “Is it them?”
“No,” you decide, resting your glass back on your coaster as you slide your chair further into the table, foot accidentally kicking his ankle as you do - his face contorts in both annoyance and pain as he repeats the motion to you. “No - Carfield’s wife is young, isn’t she?”
“27.”
“Yeah.” The wife currently settling into her seat, draping her jacket over the back of her chair, is decidedly not 27 - add 50 years, or so. “Not them. They should be here soon, though.”
“Good.”
In another moment your waitress has come to take your drink orders - you get a bottle of red wine just to hammer in the notion that you’re a young couple on a date night, even if you really prefer white wine, and you’re sure Harry would rather have a beer, but Mark always tells you to go for red when you’re out to dinner on missions. And - well - you’re not necessarily complaining. Wine is wine.
The wine arrives at your table with two tall glasses and Harry takes it to pour with a faux cheerful grin that has the waitress flushing in the dim light of the room - you tell yourself the tinge of jealousy at her clear adoration for the man currently uncorking the bottle to pour for you is simply because of how in character you are in terms of your fake marriage - and if you were someone else, perhaps you’d get angry at her for clearly flirting with Harry, though he doesn’t seem to notice.
Strange. You’d always taken him as the more observant one of the two of you, but he’s paying no mind to the waitress’s blushed face as he pours wine into your glass and she pulls out her notepad, ready to take your order.
“I’ll have the caesar salad, please, without chicken,” you tell her, giving a tight lipped grin as she scribbles it down onto her page. When Harry’s rested the bottle of wine back on the tablecloth-clad table, you reach over and rest your hand overtop of his, feeling his veins jump beneath your touch. “What about you, honey?”
If he’s confused, he doesn’t look it - just gives you a warm smile that feels entirely wrong coming from him, and the waitress looks positively affronted as he orders a large Mediterannean salad, and when she’s tucked her notebook back into the apron tied around her waist and left the private area, he furrows his eyebrows at you.
“Y’jealous?” Harry inquires, leaning his head in with a mocking grin that makes you roll your eyes, though you make no effort to move your hand from his - it looks better for appearances, anyway. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
“In your dreams,” you insist, straightening your posture once a different hostess leads a couple into the room. The man is old, bald head shining in the dim light and donning a suit jacket that clearly hasn’t been tailored to his proportions, and his wife is significantly younger, pale face flushed red and wearing a black dress that looks as though she’s attending a funeral - you suppose she is, to some degree, mourning her marriage, so perhaps it’s fitting.
Harry can tell by the way you straighten up that the new couple sitting at the table behind him is the Carfields. Vincent sits with his back to your table, his wife on the opposite side, and immediately they lean their heads together, surely speaking in hushed tones about - prenuptial agreements and custody of their two girls and the like.
You need to be a couple. Mark had insisted on it, that it’s the most important part for you to get closer to Vincent and make him susceptible to your manipulation - he needs to see you as some sort of forbidden fruit - a married woman with a seemingly happy husband. It’s a control thing for him, and one you need to play into if you want to take his drug ring down.
It would sound like an ambitious goal if you weren’t as confident in yourself and Harry - because even if you hate him, he’s a damn good agent.
Your eyes meet Harry’s across the table, and he raises an eyebrow. You nod, jerking your head up and down before wrapping your manicured fingers around the stem of your wine glass, lifting it up and giving your partner a soft smile - one that he’s rarely on the receiving end of, if you’re being truthful - and you nod your chin towards his glass. Harry follows your lead, lifting his glass and raising it to clink against yours.
“Cheers,” he murmurs, and both of you sip from your glasses before resting them back down on your coasters, the rim of your glass decorated with a generous pink stain from your lipstick. “Happy anniversary, honey.”
His voice raises in volume just a bit, and from the table behind him you can see tears fill Mrs. Carfield’s eyes at the sentiment of a happy couple, and Mr. Carfield’s head tilts to the side though you don’t watch him long enough to see if he’d heard Harry - you simply smile - lift your intertwined hands in the air and to anyone else in your private area you’re sure you simply look the perfect part of a happy couple, celebrating their marriage anniversary. Two years together. Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson have been married for longer than you’ve known (and despised) Harry - surely there’s irony hidden in there, deep enough that you can’t see it.
It’s easier than you’d like to admit to fake a meaningful conversation with Harry. Mark generally gives the pair of you a list of things to talk about so people get the impression that you can tolerate each other but you typically don’t even need it - it’s easy enough to talk about your faux plans for the rest of your marriage.
It’s almost fun, even. Not in a way you’d expect - but it’s funny, talking about whatever the pair of you would imagine married couples would discuss - mortgages and trying for babies and politics - keeping your voices loud enough so the couple behind you can hear but quiet enough so it doesn’t seem intentional.
“D’you think we could turn the guest room into a nursery?” Harry inquires, lips quirking upwards as he lifts his wine to his lips, and you nibble on your bottom lip, pretending to contemplate the question.
“Of course,” you respond faux-thoughtfully, leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes flicker downwards for hardly a second before rising to meet your eyes again. “Or perhaps the office.”
“Yes, that’s a bit bigger,” he says seriously, and you nod, reaching for your glass of wine to take another small sip. It’s bitter and leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you’re determined to drink the entire thing - it’ll soothe the nerves that you’re sure will arrive when it’s time to plant the bug on Mr. Carfield. You still haven’t figured out how you’ll manage to do it smoothly. “Then perhaps we could save the guest room for the second.”
You nod, hardly able to keep the small smile off your lips, and Harry leans forward, reaching for the stem of his glass - perhaps he miscalculates the force needed to pick up a glass, or maybe he’s beginning to feel the effects of the first glass of wine he’d downed - but his hand knocks into the glass, sending it toppling forward onto your arms, sticky red liquid coating your skin. You jerk your arms back as though he’d burned you, watching him hiss as he reaches for the glass before it can spill any further onto you or the white tablecloth now stained with redness.
You swallow the urge to snap at him - that’s counterproductive, and it’ll blow your cover - so you merely inhale, willing the anger down as you reach for your napkin to begin to mop up the mess. “Should watch what you’re doing, honey -”
“My bad, darling - didn’t mean to -”
And the moment of you beginning to like Harry is gone as fast as it had begun, feeling the simmering anger that’s ever-present beneath your skin already beginning to bubble into existence. He’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if this is your fault that he can’t control his own glass, like you’re the nuisance, and your desire to retort snarkily is thwarted only as Vincent Carfield’s head turns just slightly to the side, and you can see him and his wife watching the pair of you in what’s clearly an attempt to be subtle.
You rest your palms on the table as Harry sets his glass back on the coaster, and you can feel the similar waves of annoyance rolling off of him that you’re sure you’re mirroring. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” you tell him. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”
“Take your time, princess.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you push your chair back with a tight lipped smile, standing up and resting your napkin on the table before your seat as you push past the table towards the bathroom you’d passed when your host had lead you to the table.
The restrooms are nicely decorated, with large mirrors and sinks and two singular stalls - entirely too fancy for the thoughts racing through your mind as you lean over the sink, turning the faucet on and shoving your sticky arms beneath the flow of warm water. You’d managed to clean most of the wine with your napkin but you still just need - perhaps just a moment to yourself, without Harry’s eyes piercing into you in a way that makes it impossible to feel like he doesn’t want to throttle you.
And you want to throttle him, too. That’s why your relationship works because it doesn’t, because you hate him as much as he hates you - and yet, while you were drinking wine and messing around and pretending to be a couple you didn’t hate him. Not even a bit -
Until he spilled the wine. It’s a forcible reminder of why you want to shave off all of his hair when he sleeps, sometimes.
The water has gone cold on your skin when you finally shut the faucet off, picking up a small stack of paper towels to dry off your arms. When you’ve chucked your trash in the wicker-basket garbage bin you take a moment to simply stare at yourself in the mirror, black dress hugging your body just enough to leave very little to the imagination - you adjust the fabric to hide the bulge where you have your knife holstered to your thigh. The cut of the dress dips low into your cleavage - and then you recall how Harry’s eyes had briefly dipped downwards when you’d been talking earlier -
A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll have to remember to use that one against him later.
Just before you turn to leave you pause - stick your hand down the front of your dress to the small audio device you’d hidden in your bra. The bug is small, barely the size of your pinky nail, one side sticky enough to hold onto Vincent Carfield’s tan suit jacket -
You hadn’t thought too much about how you’d manage to subtly get the device on him, but there’s no time like the present, is there?
You leave the bathroom, then - nearly run into your waitress as she stares down at her notepad, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining the dirty look she shoots you - and climb the two short steps it takes to get to the private area you’d been seated in. Harry’s back faces you, curls looking particularly messy and head dropped forward to surely stare at his phone, and you can see Vincent leaning in to talk to his wife with narrowed eyes and a hushed tone.
You inhale and begin your walk over to the table, heels clicking on the tiled floor, and Harry’s head tilts to the side as he hears you coming. Vincent’s eyes rise to meet yours just as your heel slides a bit on the floor and you slip forward right beside their table, and the plan falls into action just as you’d planned in the thirty second walk it had taken to get from the bathroom to here.
Vincent’s arm sticks out instinctively to catch you, wrapped around your stomach for just a moment too long as his other hand rests on your back, and you use the opportunity to reach up and grab his shoulder as a way to steady yourself. Harry jerks around in his seat to watch you, and the concern in his eyes almost makes you revive your brief moment of liking him but it’s overpowered by the pride you feel - if he can’t immediately snuff out that the fall was a fraud, then it had clearly looked realistic enough that the Carfields wouldn’t be able to tell, your hand with the bug pressing to his shoulder
Boom. Planted. Your grip presses the bug against the back of his shoulder as he helps you to your feet, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes trail up your body - his poor wife looks affronted at the clear display of attraction.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” you apologize, trailing your finger down his arm as he drops his hands back to the table. “I’m so clumsy sometimes -”
“No worries,” he assures you, and perhaps he would seem like a kind, well-adjusted man if it weren’t for the way his eyes zero in on your chest like a magnet - Harry shifts in his seat, watching the two of you, and his wife picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one sip. “Always glad to help a pretty girl in need.”
A blush works its way up your cheeks and before you can flirt back - it raises bile in the back of your throat to do it - Harry intervenes, leaning forward with a goddamn award winning smile and absolutely stomping on your chance to ensure some sort of relationship with Mr. Carfield as he says, “Did she wrinkle your suit at all? We’ll get the laundry bill, if she did.”
You grind your teeth together through a smile as Vincent shakes his bald head, sending Harry a warm smile which your partner gladly reciprocates. “It’s fine - are the two of you married?”
Didn’t he hear you two loudly celebrating your anniversary? Perhaps he just needs to confirm it - nothing wrong with it - but, God, he’s forward.
“Yes, we are,” you reply, and you step away from Vincent to walk back to your table - Harry reaches for your hand and pulls you to him, and you suspect the motion would look awkward if done by anyone else but it feels entirely too natural for you to be bothered. “It’s our two year marriage anniversary, actually. That’s why we’re here - on vacation.”
“That’s lovely,” Vincent says, and his smile stretches wider until it makes you uncomfortable to look at so you busy yourself gazing down at Harry’s head as though you’re so smitten you can hardly stand to look away. Then he holds out his hand, and you grab it, letting him shake it vigorously before he moves towards Harry. “It’s Vincent Carfield,” he tells you both, and Harry jumps in to introduce yourselves by your false names. “How long are you here?”
“Just th’weekend,” Harry responds, nodding as Vincent does. “We’re staying downtown.”
“Really?” Vincent leans forward, and you lean your body back just a bit - not enough for him to notice, thankfully. “What hotel?”
And Harry gives him the name and Vincent acts as though it’s the wildest coincidence in the world that you both happen to be staying at one of the nicest, most popular hotels in London but you’re glad he overreacts, in a way. It’s important to establish some sort of relation between the two of you and maybe this’ll make Vincent feel like he’s destined to start some sort of affair with you - sure, it’s stupid, but he’s insecure and you’re ‘married’ and that should make him feel a bit more in control, knowing there’s a man waiting for you when you’re with him.
The thought could nearly make you gag. You hope beyond hope that it doesn’t have to get to it - that maybe the two of you could just sit and talk while Harry searches his hotel room - but, judging from the way he’s practically salivating as he stares up at you, you don’t think that’ll be the case.
After another moment of chatter your waitress arrives with a large plate of salad in each hand - you let go of Harry’s hand with one last departing wink to Vincent Carfield as you walk around the table to your seat, pushing your seat into the table just as your salad is placed before you.
Vincent’s wife glares at you - you’d feel bad in any other scenario. But - hey - at least they’re getting divorced already.
You pick up your fork, stabbing into a crouton and a few pieces of iceberg lettuce, and you raise it to your mouth, chewing thoughtfully on your food as Harry mirrors your actions. The two of you eat in silence for a minute or two, and you occasionally lift your wine to take a sip - he hadn’t poured himself a new glass, for which you are extremely grateful - before he leans in, curls flopping around his ears in a way that would be adorable if you didn’t have any sort of niggling annoyance for him still lingering.
“Good job, Mrs. Robinson,” murmurs Harry into a forkful of lettuce before shoving it into his mouth, and you scrunch your nose at his sloppiness.
“It’s what I’m best at,” you respond in earnest, and you relish in the way he rolls his eyes.
~~
Harry takes forever in the shower.
It’s an indisputable fact at this point and one you should have gotten used to but it never fails to amaze you as your fingers type away at the headquarters-issued laptop resting on the carpet in front of you. He’s already been in the bathroom for nearly 20 minutes - you can hear his music playing, old hippie music that’s always blaring from his earbuds on plane and car rides, and steam billows out of the crack in the bottom of the door - and you’ve been picking up where he left up setting up the audio transmitter you’d attached to Vincent Carfield so you can hear what he’s saying, wired earbuds plugged into the computer preparation for when you start the audio.
Harry hadn’t done much at all to set it up - you can’t imagine what he was doing in the hotel room while you were showering if he wasn’t working on the mission, but you’d come out after your shower and hardly anything was done.
They should come up with better technology for this, you think as you drum your fingernails against your laptop, watching the small loading bar inch across the computer screen, transmitting the audio from next door to both your laptop and to Mark, back at headquarters. You’d texted him briefly to ask if he still wanted you to call him and he told you to merely connect the audio to him and there would be no issues - well, that’s fine by you, even if you’d largely counted on him coming between you and Harry when you’ll inevitably want to kill him later tonight.
The water shuts off. You roll your eyes for a good few seconds as you hear the shower curtain being shoved open from inside the bathroom, and you lean further into the computer before you, squinting at the loading bar that hasn’t progressed further since the last time you examined it. You sigh - push yourself off of the floor, arms stretched above your head and the sleeves of your t-shirt slide further down your shoulders. You’re simply donning a worn college shirt you’d gotten when you were in high school and still had dreams of attending a typical university - dreams that, evidently, you had squashed in the years to come - and a pair of sleep shorts, their waist just a tad too big on you and you’ve tugged them up further than they should rest.
It’s decidedly chilly in the hotel. The steam dissipating through the room from Harry’s shower serves as the only way to heat you up, humid air warm on your skin, and you hate the way you almost appreciate him for taking such a piping hot shower - but the thought doesn’t have to linger too long before the bathroom door opens with the force of a fucking bullet and Harry walks out, towel tied around his waist and hanging low on his hips, sopping curls brushed and resting on his shoulders, droplets from the strands rolling down his chest.
Your stomach flips.
“Christ,” you say as a way of hiding the way your skin suddenly feels like there’s a fire lighting it from the inside out, burning your insides with it. “Don’t have any clothes to put on?”
He rolls his eyes - you swallow thickly, perching yourself on the edge of the bed as he takes a moment to stop and glance at the computer on the ground before turning back to you. “Changing in the bathroom is gross,” and - well, yeah, you have to agree with that. “Y’practically stripped naked in front f’me earlier, y’know.”
“You did it first,” you mutter, pulling your legs to cross beneath you as Harry crosses the room to the full length mirror mounted on the wall, fingers running through his wet curls, and you tear your eyes away from the water dripping onto his bare skin with only mild difficulty. “The audio is loading.”
“I saw that, believe it or not.”
Dick. You bite your tongue, though, and resist the urge to retort that he’d clearly not even started to set up the transmitter while you were showering, because the loading bar has moved nearly to the end of the screen while you’d been conversing with Harry. You climb off the bed, kneeling in front of the computer as Harry looks down at you, and you distinctly feel a drop from his hair land on the top of your head.
“S’done?” he inquires, and you glance up at him to reply but he’s already plopping down next to you, leaning over you to squint at the screen so you get a nice whiff of the hotel soap he’d used and his own distinct scent of shampoo - it’s fruity, mixed with something musky you can’t decipher - maybe tobacco? It’s hard to tell - he smells good. You wonder if he’s noticed how still you’ve gotten but then he pulls away, leaning back on his arm while you clear your throat and lean forward, tapping the mousepad on your laptop a few times in quick succession. “You’ve got it hooked to Mark?”
“‘Course,” you say, if only to regain your composure and keep your pretense of light annoyance with him. “Probably why it’s taking so long.”
“Ah.”
Then he stands, crossing to the entrance hall where his suitcase is opened, clothes folded meticulously because he’s nothing if not a freak for his clothes - out of the corner of your eye you see him pull out a pair of pajama pants and only a pair of pajama pants, and when his head turns to glance back at you, you’re quick to avert your gaze back to the computer -
Which has loaded. Hooray!
“It’s done,” you call to him, a decibel too loud and you’re quick to lower your voice with a small glance to the wall separating you and the Carfields. Earlier, you’d heard their door slam when they got home from dinner and you could make out their faint voices arguing if you focused hard enough - you don’t want them to hear you. “Get changed and we can listen.”
You pick up one of the earbuds connected to the laptop and shove it in your ear, fiddling with the volume buttons until it’s loud enough that you can hear their conversations as Harry ducks back into the bathroom. Clearly the coat with the bug has been folded in such a way that it muffles their voices but hell, it’s a strong bug, and you can still manage to hear them fine enough.
You send a text to Mark, and he confirms he can hear it too - you toss your phone to the side, letting it slide across the carpet as you lean in, adjusting the earbud in your ear.
Vincent’s voice is what you hear first - he’s talking fast, as though he’s in a rush, and your brows furrow.
“The new shipment isn’t set to come in until the first,” he says, tone hushed and soft, and you can’t hear his wife’s response after a moment of listening, and then he continues. “Think, you idiot! She’s trying to milk me for everything I’ve got - everything we’ve worked for -”
For a brief moment you wonder who she is, but after another few moments with no response you figure that he isn’t talking to his wife as you’d expected - he’s on the phone with someone, speaking of his divorce. A business partner - of course. The bathroom door opens, and your eyes shift to Harry’s figure as you hold out the available earbud for him.
Fuck. He’s gonna fucking kill you - not with his hands or with his gun but with those fucking pants, so low on his hips you can see the trail of hair leading beneath the plaid fabric, the tie done loose and casual. He’s not wearing a shirt, tattoos on full display for you to ogle if you had the time to, and you don’t, of course, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from roaming over his torso, throat feeling suddenly dry as he pads over to you on the ground, dropping to his knees beside you.
“Are you checking me out?” Harry questions, a soft smirk dancing on his lips and you roll your eyes, dangling the earbud for him to grab and he finally takes it, placing it in his left ear just as Vincent begins to speak again.
“Never,” you murmur, and if that isn’t the furthest from the truth you could get to you’re not quite sure what is. “Listen to him - I’m going to the bathroom.” And, as you push yourself to stand and walk towards the bathroom, you swear you can hear him murmur slacker beneath his breath but - well - you don’t need to respond to everything he says sometimes.
Truthfully, yes. You did have to pee. And when you’re done with that you turn on the faucet to wash your hands and you stare at the bathroom mirror that’s still damp from the steam of his shower, edges still frosted with the humidity, and it makes your reflection fuzzy as you look at yourself.
What the fuck? Seriously - what the fuck?
There’s a pressure in your lower stomach and a neediness between your thighs that you can only assign to Harry’s freshly-showered, no-shirt-low-pants appearance and it has shame bubbling under your skin mixed with some other feeling you don’t care enough to figure out. You’re feeling very strange things for Harry - things you’ve never felt for him, ever, in the entire year of knowing him - and you’re almost completely positive he doesn’t feel the same, doesn’t have the same desire to bend you over this sink -
Almost. But almost is very close to absolutely positive.
You feel embarrassed for yourself as you glance around the sink. His hairbrush sits on the counter, and there are so many assorted beauty products scattered across the surface that you can’t tell which ones are yours or his.
The lotion is his, you decide. You don’t use unscented lotion - but you reach for it anyway, squirting a dollop onto your palms and rubbing it in for a reason you’re not entirely sure of. When your hands are as soft as they’re going to get you glance at yourself in the mirror again, shirt baggy and long, the ends of your shorts peeking beneath the fabric.
You reach up, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until they aren’t visible beneath the ends of your shirt, exposing your legs until it appears you’re wearing no sleep shorts beneath the shirt. It’s more comfortable like that, anyway, you tell yourself, which isn’t quite true, before pushing the bathroom door open and walking back out to where Harry’s perched on the floor.
He turns to look at you, and you don’t miss the way his eyes crawl up your legs but he’s a bit more subtle about it than you’re sure you were - his bottom lip looks a deeper shade of red than the top and you wonder if he’d been biting it.
You decide not to repeat his retort about checking you out, even if you’re almost entirely sure he was.
“How’s it going?” you inquire, picking up your earbud to begin listening again. The wire connecting the two buds is short and you shift closer to him until the tip of your kneecap brushes his - you’d expected him to jerk away like you’d fucking stepped on him but he doesn’t, surprisingly. “Got anything juicy?”
“Jus’ vague references t’shipments and goods - they’re trying t’trace his call, see who he’s talking to.” You nod, resting your chin on your palm as Vincent drones on about exactly what Harry had said - the only substantial piece of evidence you have pointing to his business being a coverup for a drug trafficking scheme is references to obscene amounts of money he fears losing to his ex-wife that he would’ve never been able to obtain working at a privately-owned tailory.
For ten minutes Vincent’s phone call remains as a bit of a drag and, truthfully, a rather large waste of time in your opinion - this is stuff you’d already known, including the shipment coming in a week’s time that you know headquarters will be able to intercept - and you’ve just begun to pull out your earbud to retreat to the bathroom once more to brush your teeth when Harry’s arm jerks towards you, fingers wrapping around your wrist and effectively preventing you from rising.
“Jesus hell,” you hiss, dropping back down onto the ground as you shove your earbud back in, “what -?”
But then Vincent is speaking again.
“ - look, buddy,” he says, voice suddenly dropped lower so that Harry reaches out, tapping the volume button a few times until you can hear him properly, “met this girl at dinner tonight, out with Bonnie. Real cute - body like a fuckin’ goddess.”
Your cheeks flush as a small smirk spreads across Harry’s face.
Vincent pauses, clearly awaiting his business partner’s response to this shocking bit of news, and when he speaks again he sounds more annoyed. “Fuckin’ done with Bonnie - I’m a free agent, Jules.”
You snap at Harry, but he’s already fishing for his phone, pulling up the notes app and jotting down the name Jules in a fresh page.
“Can fuck whoever I want to, now, and I swear, you’d die if you saw her.” You can practically picture the scumbag’s face as he says it, all smug and arrogant - as though you’d ever give him the time of a day if you weren’t being fucking paid for it. “Staying at the same hotel too, with her husband.”
Another pause. “Jules, do you think I give a shit about husbands? Remember Mia, in LA? The one married to that big fella? She was all over me.”
Your lips quirk up into a smile even as your stomach continues to churn in disgust, and Harry exhales softly, resting his phone on top of his knee. Clearly, Vincent’s conversation with Jules has turned from fighting for nearly fifteen minutes about shipments and payments to you and it’s entirely less important but it still piques your interest more. The gritty details of their shipping is for Mark to handle back at headquarters - you need to make sure you can distract Vincent long enough for Harry to search his room.
“ - and, man, you should’ve seen the eyes this girl was giving me - and her husband was all over her, too, checkin’ her out but she was still looking at me -”
You nearly choke at that, head whipping to the side to look at Harry, and he’s doing a sufficient job of furrowing his eyebrows and looking entirely confused at Vincent’s words but you don’t believe him for a moment. Checking you out - God, and you had the nerve to feel embarrassed for your desire for him. A month ago you may have been truly annoyed at Vincent’s observation but it only fuels the fire igniting in your core as Harry puts on his pretense of adjusting his earbuds, tips of his ears bright red as he pointedly avoids your gaze, and you bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning.
“I’ll let you go. God, don’t sound so pretentious - didn’t you hook up with that French chick who was married to the boxer? - Yeah, that’s what I thought -”
You’re much less interested in Vincent’s conversations now, pulling your earbud out and standing up, arms stretched high above your head as Harry stays, leaning against the ground with one arm. After a moment, though, Vincent must have ended his phone call - Harry shuts the laptop and pulls his earbud out, standing up, and your gazes meet for a moment.
“Vincent’s an idiot,” he tells you, flush creeping up his neck, and you nod.
“Is he?’
“Y’know he was just saying that so he seemed cool, right?”
“Said what?”
Harry rolls his eyes, then, and you can’t stop the smirk from gracing your lips once more as he crosses across the hotel room, collapsing onto his back onto the bed, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch him. “Didn’t check you out.”
“I didn’t say you did.” He doesn’t respond, and you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, glaring down at his slumped figure. “You’re not getting the bed.”
“‘Course I am. We fought it out, remember?”
“And we didn’t finish.”
“We absolutely did,” and then he pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and it takes more willpower than you possess to keep your eyes from roaming his body but you resist with everything in you - you’ll just about die if he calls you out for checking him out. “I beat you. I had y’against the headboard.”
“That was inconclusive.”
“Get on the couch.”
You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back, staring into his fucking soul because you’ll be damned if you sleep on the couch, even if it makes logistical sense because he is taller than you - but, no. You’re the one who could possibly have to fuck Vincent Carfield in all his glory. You deserve the bed, size be damned.
In the end, you blink first, and come bedtime, you’re nestled on the couch with blankets you’d found in the hotel wardrobe.
You hate Harry.
~~
The couch is extremely uncomfortable. It’s what you’d expected but your back still aches in pain when you wake up at 3 in the fucking morning, blankets dangling off the edge of the cushions you’re bundled on top of, and the pillow your head was resting on has slipped off onto the ground.
The room is pitch black as you groan, the noise purposefully loud, reaching down until your fingers graze the edge of the pillow - but your grip is slow, tired, and as you pick up the pillow to throw it back behind your head it slips from your grasp, dropping onto the ground and bouncing against the carpet until it’s resting a solid six feet from the couch.
Do you really need a pillow? You’re not sure, but you desperately don’t want to have to get up and get it because you know your sleepiness will melt away before you can even think about it, and, more than anything, you desire going back to sleep in order to try and be well rested for tomorrow.
You reach down and pull your clump of blankets back up over yourself, pulling your knees further against your chest so the entire area of the blankets coats your body. Your head rests against the flat cushion, pillow be damned, and you shift again until your back is rested flat against the cushion as well, legs sticking straight out in front of you, the couch creaking at the movement.
The blankets don’t cover your legs - you push one of them down until they’re situated onto your feet, collectively covering your entire body even if it isn’t necessarily warm. At least they’re blanketed to some degree.
After ten minutes of trying to go back to bed, you pointedly decide that yes, you really do need a pillow, and immediately. Your neck already aches with the uncomfortable position and your ears feel chilly without being pressed into the soft pillow you’d snatched from the bed Harry is currently sleeping on - the bastard. He’d practically suffocated you with his smug gazes before he fell asleep, curled on top of the bed that he’d (rightfully) claimed as his after an arm wrestle, rock paper scissors game, and a half-hearted second attempt at a wrestling match - you’d lost all three.
Whatever. You’d been determined not to sulk at your losses before returning to the couch, trying not to let Harry see you mope but now you wish you’d made a bigger show of your disappointment - perhaps he’d have caved and taken the couch, but you’re sure he’d have stayed firm no matter what.
You slowly push yourself off of the couch, creeping across the room towards where your pillow rests on the ground, and you pick it up, clutching it tight to your chest before returning to the couch. You press it against the cushion, punching it a few times to attempt to soften it before huffing softly, lying yourself back down and tugging your blankets tight back up against you.
The next ten minutes goes by much as the night had previously - you can’t find a good position, turning onto your side and your back and your stomach until you’re hardly sure which way you’re facing, at this point, face buried tight against your pillow. You long for not much more than a soft bed for your back to rest into and you’re sure you’ll be a sore, tired disaster tomorrow when you manage to find Vincent Carfield in the hotel.
You turn to your side, the couch squeaking beneath the shift in your weight, and your body tenses when you hear a soft groan from the lump wrapped in covers on top of the bed, his silhouette illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window into the hotel room.
“How much longer are y’gonna move?” Harry grunts, voice low and raspy and you swallow when you hear it - if you close your eyes and listen to him speak, you could almost imagine him sounding like that in a very different scenario - “Keepin’ me up.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” you retort, voice soft and crackling with your yearning to sleep. “If you’d like to take the couch so I stop tossing and turning, I’d much appreciate it.”
He exhales softly, the noise sounding so deep and pornographic it makes your stomach flip. “In your dreams.”
You narrow your eyes as you stare at him, duvet pulled up to his chest and head turned to the side towards you - in the dark you can’t tell if his eyes are shut or if he’s looking at you. For a moment you decide not to say anything, hands crossed over your stomach, and then you shift loudly onto your back, couch creaking, and Harry sighs just as you’d anticipated.
“Please,” he begins, tone low and pleading, and you cut him off before he can continue.
“Not my fault the couch is loud, Har.”
“You’re doin’ it on purpose.”
“Of course I’m not,” you tell him, shifting again so another noise permeates the air of the hotel room. “The couch is just noisy - and uncomfortable.”
There’s a rather pregnant pause after that and you keep your eyes on Harry, watching the way he shifts onto his back, opening up a rather small sliver of space beside him and your heart practically leaps at the sight but you don’t say anything else - simply roll back onto your side, the couch creaking as you do, and he sighs again.
It seems like he sighs a lot.
“If I invite you into my bed,” Harry begins, and a small smile begins tugging your lips upwards even if you want to groan at his usage of the word my, “you’ll promise t’be quiet an’ go t’sleep?”
God, he sounds like your mother. “Yes,” you tell him, clutching the blankets wrapped around your torso. “I promise.”
Another pause. “Then - then y’can come. We can share.”
You try not to look too eager. Masking your emotions is, perhaps, the most important aspect of your job and yet you’re sure you look just as excited as you feel, pushing yourself to your feet with your blankets wrapped around your body, pillow stowed beneath your arm. Your feet pad across the carpet, toes sinking into the plushness of the floor before you make it to the bed, and Harry’s staring up at you, face contorted in a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher.
“Not gonna scooch over, then?” you question, resting your pillow against the bed and hitting it a few times.
“Y’have room, don’t you?”
And the answer is that you don’t, of course. When you lie yourself down on the bed your legs knock into Harry’s, head so close to his you can feel his curls grazing your face, and the duvet you pull up your chin smells like him, distinctly. His elbow juts into your side - your cold foot rests against his warm one - you don’t think you’ve ever touched him this much outside of a mission.
You drape your clump of blankets over your body, partially resting on top of Harry, smoothing your palms over the fabric with a contented sigh. Your back is thanking you for the switch in sleeping spots and your neck sinks into the pillow and mattress, aches already beginning to alleviate themselves.
“Still need me t’move?” Harry asks, and you shut your eyes, nearly missing the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he rests himself back against the bed.
“No,” you murmur, and there’s another moment of silence before he mumbles his affirmation. Tomorrow you’re sure you’ll regret this - sleeping beside him, even if that’s all you do - feeling him pressed against parts of your body you’d never expected to feel his touch on.
Well, you’d rather deal with the tinge of embarrassment (and pride) than an achy back and lack of sleep - you smile slightly.
~~
The next morning comes entirely too soon for your liking - sunlight peeking through the windows permeates your eyelids until you’re groaning awake, palm pressed against your eyes to block the light and face burying itself back into your pillow.
Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. If your alarm doesn’t go off, then it’s not morning. Surely you have a few more hours of rest before you need to get up - even a couple more minutes will do -
Just as the thought crosses your mind your phone blares its alarm, the loud noise jolting you up like a bucket of ice water, and, from behind you, Harry grunts into his pillow.
Behind you.
You’re quick to silence your alarm - another nine full minutes of peaceful resting, if you’re lucky, before you’re disturbed again, though you’re sure you won’t get back to bed now that you’ve remembered the events of last night.
Harry’s arm is heavy, draped over your midsection, the soft surface of his cheek buried intently into the crevice between your neck and shoulder - you can feel his soft breathing against your skin, the air a warm and gentle sensation. One of his legs has wedged itself between yours, thigh pressed entirely too high in the crevice between your thighs, and with every moment that passes you can feel the rise and fall of his bare chest as he snores behind you.
What a fucking sight, you think, sitting up slightly to look down at him. God, if he were awake, you’d tease him until he cries about what a position the pair of you had worked yourselves into but you have the foresight to see how that would backfire on you - technically, you’re just as to blame as he is, even if he’s the bigger spoon right now.
But you’re most decidedly not to blame for the hardness pressing into your lower back, tearing a sleepy groan from Harry’s throat when you shift in your position.
The bastard. He’s hard as a fucking rock from pressing against you while you slept, and a sleepy smirk spreads across your face as you glance down at him. In any other circumstance you think you’d poke him awake just to make him aware of it but there’s a certain air of desire you’re feeling as well that makes you feel - well, not as though you’re in the appropriate position to make fun of him for his boner.
Slowly, you disentangle yourself from his body. His leg drops to the mattress when you swing your own off the edge of the bed, his arm falling until it’s resting in your lap, palm pressed against a certain area that makes your breath hitch, furrowing your eyebrows as you glance down at his hand. There are still fading, pink indents from the rings he takes off every night and before every mission, save for the fake wedding band the two of you often have to don on missions, and you scrunch your nose as you admire it.
Married. You don’t think so. The only time you think of him with anything other than hatred is when he’s asleep, like this - or shirtless.
You stand up, shaking your head to wipe those thoughts from your mind. Harry’s hand drops onto the mattress and you can tell it’s the push he needed into consciousness - you glance back at him to see his eyes cracked open, and they shut when your gazes meet.
“‘Morning,” you tell him, voice louder than you’d intended, and he winces at the noise, shifting onto his back - it’s as though you can see the exact moment he realizes his little problem mixed with the realization that you would also know about it, pressed up against him during the night - his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he pushes himself to lean against the headboard, bundling his duvet onto his lap.
“Um - g’morning,” Harry replies, voice raspy like it had been the night prior and your stomach turns - you shift on your feet. “Y’goin’ t’the bathroom?”
“You can go first,” you say, and he nods, bringing fists up to rub at his eyes. And then - because you just can’t help pissing him off when you have such a golden opportunity - you add, “Think you might need it a bit more than I do.”
His face reddens.
~~
Earpiece. Knife. Boobs.
You go through the things you need on a mental checklist as you pick up your forkful of scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully on the bite. The hotel restaurant is nearly completely full, couples and families packed into the small tables as they feast on their complimentary breakfasts, chatter filling the section. You’ve been sitting eating (truthfully, delicious) breakfast for the better half of an hour, bringing your plate up to the buffet to refill your platter of eggs, fruit, and toast.
Realistically, you would have eaten and left had you not been waiting for a very specific somebody to walk in and catch your eye. You and Harry had plugged back into the bug in Vincent’s room to hear him planning to go down for complimentary breakfast - the only clue you had as to how he wanted to spend his day - and it was the only opportunity you had to find him. Get him out of his room - talking, if possible - so Harry can search it.
It’s such an easy plan, you could practically do it in your sleep.
“Is he there yet?” inquires a crackling voice from your earpiece, disguised as an earring dangling from your lobes.
“No,” you murmur, voice soft as a whisper, and you’re sure he can’t hear your response until he sighs.
“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?”
“Mhm.”
You pick up your glass of orange juice, raising the cup to rouge-stained lips as you take a sip. When you rest it back down on the table, there’s a light red stain on the glass - you wipe it away with a manicured thumb, leaning back in your seat, legs crossed. Your eyes scan the restaurant again, lingering on any newcomers leaning against the wall in case you can pinpoint the man you’re searching for - wide frame, untailored suits, bald head that shines in the artificial light.
(Complimentary breakfast ends at 10, and it’s 9:48. It’s safe to say that you’re getting nervous.)
Your nerves, however, are soothed just a bit when a familiar figure makes his way into the dining hall - tall and haughty, phone pressed to his sweaty head, Vincent Carfield is the image of a stressed businessman, recently divorced and searching for a young, married woman who’d given him eyes last night. His suit is baggy, buttons of the jacket undone and his white button up has sweat stains spreading from the armpits, visible with his arm lifted up to his ear. Instinctively your back straightens, tugging down the top of your lace top so that the top of your cleavage shows - it seems to be your greatest weapon, dealing with a man like Carfield.
You lower your gaze to your phone clutched in your hand but you can still sense exactly the moment his eyes land on you. In your peripheral vision you watch him straighten up, lips moving quickly before his phone is shoved into his pocket, weaving his way between circular tables until he’s standing beside you, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes never meet yours - his gaze stays on a point eerily similar to your chest.
“Is he there?” Harry questions, and you clear your throat - it’s the symbol you’d decided on to mean yes if you can’t speak.
“Vincent,” you begin, faux smile spreading across your face, and a similar one lands on his features. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching him press chapped, dry lips to the back of your palm, and the urge to scrunch your nose at the feeling is almost overwhelming. “It’s so good to see you.”
“And you,” he says, and you drop your hand back to the tablecloth resting on your table. “Can I sit?”
“Of course,” you reply, and he pulls out the empty seat across from you, resting with a soft grunt. “Breakfast ends in a few minutes, though - you’re welcome to have some of mine, if you’re hungry.”
He obliges, reaching to pull your plate to him, and you watch as he picks up your buttered toast, taking a large bite and smacking his lips as he chews. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”
You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward ever so slightly. “And why is that?”
“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Vincent tells you, and in your earpiece, Harry snorts at his words - you hope you didn’t jump too hard at his sudden noises in your ear. “I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong idea at dinner, last night -”
“What idea were you getting?”
“That you were interested in me,” and you tilt your head to the side, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth - if Harry could see the act you’re playing right now, you’d be humiliated. At least he can only hear it. “I saw the eyes you were giving me - not even worried ‘bout your husband seeing?”
“He’s too dense to notice,” you say, a smile tilting your lips up as Harry groans - from his side of the earpiece you can hear bustling mixed with the sound of a door opening, and you assume he’s just entered Vincent’s apartment. He needs at least a half hour, Mark had told you - breakfast ends in nearly five minutes, and you need somewhere else to take Carfield. “You know, Vince - is it okay if I call you Vince?”
“I don’t think he cares what you call him,” mumbles Harry, so quiet you’re sure he’s hardly even intending for you to hear it, “as long as you have your hand down his pants in the next ten minutes.”
Your cheeks flush as Vincent smiles, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off your toast. “Call me whatever you want to,” he tells you, and you can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes through your earpiece.
“Alright, Vince - breakfast is ending in a few minutes, and I desperately hope we can keep talking.” He nods along with your words, leaning in as he pushes his plate to the center of the table - all that’s left is the fruit and the remnants of your eggs. “Do you think we could go up to my room? My husband is off visiting some family members across London - he won’t be home for hours.”
“Hours?”
“Hours,” you confirm, nodding as you take another sip of your orange juice - this time you don’t wipe the lipstick stain off of your glass, and you watch his eyes follow the mark as you lower the glass back to the table. “Can we go, Vince?”
Clearly he isn’t thinking clearly enough to question how curious it is that you’d had similar feelings for him without much trouble at all - instead, he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He practically knocks the table in his rush to stand up - you watch a red blush creep up his neck to his ears as he grabs it, steadying the wobbling surface, and you pretend you hadn’t noticed when he holds his hand out for you. You allow him to take your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a secure arm around your waist, palm stretched across your hips so his fingertips creep up the hem of your lace shirt.
“Are you going to our room?” questions Harry in your ear, and there’s a few scuffling noises on the other end that makes you internally cringe as Vincent begins weaving the pair of you between tables that are now emptying as complimentary breakfast reaches its end. “____? ‘Y’goin’ t’our room?”
You clear your throat once, and Vincent glances over at you with an amused glance on his face as the two of you make your way out of the restaurant. “Are you okay, darling?”
The pet name makes you cringe internally and you give him a soft smile as you approach the hallway full of elevators, available to take you to any of the available thirteen residential floors of the hotel - Vincent presses the button to go up, and you wait for the doors to open. “I’m great.”
“Make sure he doesn’t want to stop in his room,” Harry mutters, and you swallow, your smile not faltering. You want to tell Harry to make sure he’s completely quiet in his endeavors in Vincent’s room but you’re sure he already knows - you can’t risk Vincent hearing a strange noise while you’re attempting to distract him.
The elevator doors open, and Vincent pulls you inside with a grip on your waist like a vise. He glances at the array of buttons available to press, and looks at you with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s floor 13,” you tell him, and he smiles, pressing the button until it glows.
“Floor 13? That’s where I’m staying, too,” he says, and you nod in mock-surprise -
“What a surprise,” Harry snorts in your ear, and you can’t stop the smirk from spreading across your face.
~~
There’s a thick thigh pressed between both of yours, sweaty palms slid beneath your lace top, and you don’t think you’ve ever found a man’s touch less desirable in your life - and, for whoever may be keeping a record, this job has required you to get up close and personal with more skeevy men that you’d expected when you’d applied.
The only thing keeping a blissed out look on your face is your focus on the soft noises coming from the other end of your earpiece as Vincent lands wet, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, tongue laving over your skin - hearing Harry’s occasional quiet breathing and muffled noises as he searches the hotel room next to yours makes this entirely worth it.
Against your throat, Vincent moans, and the noise is throaty and loud - you can hear Harry stifling a laugh directly into your ear, and the noise sends a chill rolling up your spine. Clearly, Vincent thinks your involuntary movement was for him - his hands grasp on your tits entirely too hard to be pleasurable and you bite back the urge to tell him so. “Such a dirty girl,” he tells you.
You rest your head back against the wall he has you pressed against with a moan that sounds entirely fake from your throat. You can almost imagine how Harry’s going to make fun of this when he sees you next, and your stomach turns when you think about it for a reason you can’t quite decipher. “Fuck,” you say, forcing your voice to a near whine, and you swear you can hear Harry’s voice hitch through your piece but you’re not sure. “Feels - so good.”
The lie sounds natural off of your lips as Vincent’s knee jabs into your clit - the pressure is a pain rather than a pleasure and your breath hitches as you try not to cry out. He chuckles against your skin, clearly taking your soft sign of pain as an emblem of pleasure, and you shut your eyes as his teeth graze the veins in your neck.
“No way,” breathes Harry, and your ears perk up - had he found something in Vincent’s room? “S’he actually good at that?”
You want to snort at that. Of course he isn’t good but the thought of Harry listening spurs you on more than it should - you roll your hips against Vincent’s thigh with a soft moan, higher pitched than your last one, and the man on the other end of your earpiece exhales.
“That sounded fake,” Harry says, voice soft and light, and you want to slam your head into the wall so he knows that he’s starting to piss you off from next door. “So he’s not makin’ y’feel good?”
You practically freeze. If Vincent wasn’t tugging your shirt up to expose your tits to the cold air of your hotel room, you’re sure you would have forgotten where you were completely. Those words from Harry’s mouth mixed with an edge of venom isn’t what you’d expected him to say at all - on the contrary, you’d think he was fucking with you, trying to work you up to embarrass you if you couldn’t hear his little moans that he’s clearly trying to silence.
Is he worked up? Because you can work with that.
You drop your head back to whack against the wall with a loud moan as Vincent’s clammy lips press to the fabric of your bra. Your hand goes up to press to the back of his bald head, fingernails scratching against his sweaty scalp and you wish - not for the first time - that you were feeling thick, chocolate-toned curls beneath your fingers instead, tugging on them as his tongue lavished you. Though, in your mind, it’s more teeth and grit and anger because you’re sure you’d find a way to be angry with Harry even if his mouth were on your tits - it’s one of your special skills - in every fantasy you’ve had of your partner it’s violent and harsh.
“Fuck,” grunts a voice from your earpiece, and hardly a moment later Vincent groans a similar noise as you rock your hips against his thigh. Thankfully he seems to be getting a decent amount of pleasure just making out with your boobs like a teenage boy and - maybe, if Harry is quick enough in his search of his hotel room - you won’t have to fuck him at all. It’ll be a Christmas miracle (a month early, but a miracle nonetheless.) “Are y’fuckin’ him?”
You whimper, Harry’s voice shooting from your ear directly down to your cunt and your clit and you feel wetness soaking your knickers, pressed against Vincent’s thigh though it may as well be the arm of a couch for how it affects you - the only pleasure you get from Vincent’s hard body against yours is the urge to close your eyes and imagine it’s Harry.
“No, you’re not,” says Harry, and there’s a soft clatter in your earpiece - surely he’s dropped something from the room next door and you tense. Surely Vincent hadn’t heard it, teeth still gnashing against your bra, and he seems too distracted to pay attention to it. “M’hard as a fuckin’ rock, ____ - thinkin’ of you, gettin’ off on my voice, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you exhale, and Vincent glances up at you, thick brows furrowed in confusion. You swallow, focusing on giving yourself a satisfied expression, and he turns back to your chest, seemingly convinced of your pleasure. “Yes - making me feel so good.”
Harry groans in your ear, and you wonder, suddenly, if he’s jerking off - if he’s leaning against Vincent Carfield’s bed, hand pumping up and down his cock as he listens to you. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or leaning against the wall like you are, his breathing picking up as sweat drips down his forehead -
“Gonna fuck you,” Vincent mumbles against your boobs, and you scrunch your nose. “Want me to fuck you?”
“Just -” you swallow, and Harry snickers in your ear, the soft laugh breathy and groaning. “Just wait, feels so good -”
“Don’t fuck him,” says Harry, and there’s a few more jostling noises on the other end mixed with another soft moan - you have a sudden image of him, digging through Vincent Carfield’s possessions with a firm hand around his cock and you feel the result of that imagery stricken straight down to your clit like a fucking lightning bolt until you’re crying out, and your orgasm is on you so embarrassingly fast you could sob in embarrassment. “I’m almost there -”
You’re not sure if he means he’s almost about to cum or if he’s almost found something to convict Vincent - you’re not entirely sure which interpretation you’d prefer.
“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, the words sour on your tongue as Vincent glances up at you with a wicked smile, jolting his thigh further up into your clit, and you furrow your eyebrows at the pain the motion brings. “Fuck, H - Vincent.”
“Y’were gonna say m’name,” Harry hisses, and you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment coursing through your veins. You almost fucked everything up. “Cum. Let Vincent think he made y’cum - go ahead - do it.”
And - fuck. Who are you to disobey? You grind your core down on Vincent’s thigh with a throaty cry, and your orgasm rushes over you with an embarrassing waterfall of pleasure and shame. Never have you cum so easily and it wasn’t even Harry’s touch - simply his voice, his groans as he listens to you come undone - and, in the end, the only thing to pull you from your high is Vincent’s eyes boring into yours, eyebrows raised and lips parted as he pulls his face from your chest with a most satisfied expression on his face.
You want to smack it off of him - if you hadn’t already cum, that look would’ve stopped you in your tracks. As it is, it slows the aftershocks of your release into dull nothingness while Harry moans in your earpiece, his noises a mere backdrop to the sudden growing sounds of scuffling and jostling, and his sharp gasp is loud enough for Vincent’s head to snap up.
“Did you hear that?” Vincent questions - Harry curses into your earpiece.
“I found something,” Harry tells you, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I found - s’under his mattress - m’calling Mark!”
A small smile spreads across your face at his words. It’s done. He’s found something worthy enough to convict Vincent Carfield, and that’s enough for you to press your palms to his chest, pushing him away from you so forcefully that he stumbles over the carpet, back slamming into the edge of your bed as he falls to the ground. His expression is so confuddled as he stares up at you that, for a moment, you marvel at his lack of self awareness - in an instant you’re reaching up the hem of your skirt to the knife in its holder strapped to your thigh, and you pull the blade out to point at Vincent Carfield, in your ear a myriad of Harry’s delighted cheers of, “I’ve found it!”
~~
Wrapping up a mission isn’t nearly as speedy as you’d like - there’s debriefs and paperwork to complete once Vincent is done and arrested, phone confiscated along with the drugs found in his hotel room by your partner, and physical evaluations to determine whether you’d been hurt, and a long phone call with Mark where he congratulated the pair of you.
Not only for taking down Vincent Carfield, your boss had said, his voice booming and cheerful, but for making it out without killing each other.
If only he knew.
Your plane is set to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, and if you were more reasonable perhaps you’d heade Mark’s advice to go straight to sleep and set an alarm for 3 AM but you’ve never been too bright in that regard. You finish your last debrief in the hotel restaurant, Harry working diligently beside you, and it’s at nearly 9 PM that the pair of you pack up your work and begin to head upstairs.
The elevator ride is silent when Harry reaches to press the button for your floor. Your room had been closed for you to visit for the better part of the afternoon until Vincent’s had been properly searched, though Harry had gladly given the authorities everything he’d found without a moment of hesitation. Tiredness creaks at your bones but here - standing beside Harry, feeling his gaze boring into the side of your face - you desire nothing less than to go to sleep.
“Good work, Mr. Robinson,” you tell him, and he raises his eyebrows when you turn your head to look at him. “Fairly easy mission, wasn’t it?”
“For you,” he says, and you arch your eyebrow, frown tugging your lips downwards as the elevator begins to move up. “Gettin’ off on Vincent’s thigh was the hardest part - I had t’search the room.”
For a moment you wonder if he’s kidding and certainly he’s only teasing you but you still roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Didn’t seem too difficult, moaning and crying ‘bout how hard you were. I bet I could’ve found the drugs in half the time it took you -”
“You couldn’t have,” Harry says, and you exhale sharply.
“‘Course I could -”
“Wasn’t hidden in plain sight like everything you find.”
“So where were they?”
He pauses, and you smile down at your shoes - surely you’ve got him now. “Hidden in his computer,” Harry says, then, and your smile is wiped away in an instant. Shit, you wouldn’t have found them. “Not so smart now, are you?”
“Oh, you dick -”
The elevator doors open to your floor and Harry pushes himself off the wall, stalking out of the elevator and you jump to follow him, picking up the pace to walk beside him as he begins down the hall towards your hotel room. It’s entirely too easy, falling back into an arrangement of bickering with him as though nothing had happened - as though you hadn’t cum with his voice alone, and you’re nearly positive that he had, too.
He stops in front of your hotel door, digging in the pockets of his pants for the room key, and you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know why you’re actin’ so high and mighty,” he tells you, voice biting as he shoves the key card into the door’s slot - it beeps red, and he tries again. “As f’you didn’t cream your fucking pants jus’ listenin’ t’my voice.”
“I’m not acting high and mighty,” you retort, praying the burning sensation in your face isn’t visible to him but you doubt you’re that lucky. “You don’t have to be such a douche all the time - and, by the way, you came in your pants, too, didn’t you.”
It’s not a question, and Harry flings the door open, letting you walk in before he follows. In an instant, before you can march into the bedroom area to huff at how pissed he’s getting you - it is what he’s best at - there’s a tight grip on your wrist, turning you around so fast your head spins, and before you can object, Harry has you pressed against the door, hands caging you in on either side of your head.
His face is so close to yours you can smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d had while you two worked, mixed with the scent of his mint toothpaste and his shampoo, curls dropping into your face as he wedges his leg between both of yours, thigh pressed against your cunt. It’s just as Vincent had done but so different, so much better, and it tears a whine out of your throat right off the bat.
Your urge is to lean in, clash your lips together in a fury of tongue and teeth but you don’t want to make the first move - Harry can take the lead and you’ll follow, and that’s more than enough for you. So you simply drop your head back, breathing heavy as you stare into his eyes, nearly cross-eyed to meet his gaze.
“Fuck you,” you tell him, and the words lack the venom you’d yearned for. It’s filled with more desperation and neediness than you’d anticipated, and you feel your stomach flip-flop at the smirk that spreads across Harry’s face. “Fuck you.”
His hands drop from against your head and for a moment you fear he’s going to pull away, that he’s doing this just to fuck with you but then his hands are on your legs, fingertips dancing up and down your outer thighs, fingering the hem of your skirt, and you jolt under him. “You’re so responsive,” he tells you, and you roll your eyes, dropping your head back against the door. “I love getting y’worked up.”
“Shut up,” you groan, feeling his fingers working your skirt up your legs, and the fabric brushes over the edge of your knife, still fastened to your thigh.
“Like makin’ y’angry.”
“Shut up,” and finally Harry leans in, mouth slamming against yours until your teeth grind against his and your lips part with a shocked gasp. His tongue slips between your lips, your hands reaching up to bury in his curls and hold his face to yours. His palm slides up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist and your cheeks burn as the cold hotel room air assaults your skin, goosebumps popping up in their wake. You whimper into Harry’s lips and he pulls away, palms smoothing up and down your thighs before you feel his fingers hook against the top of your knife, and he tugs the blade out of your holster.
You watch with wary eyes as Harry brings the blade up to his eyes, examining it with narrowed eyes, his other hand still resting on your thigh, fingertips rubbing circles into your skin harsh enough that you’re sure you’ll find bruises tomorrow in the shape of his hands. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him and his eyes turn to yours, smile tugging his lip up.
“Y’look a bit excited, there,” Harry says - an acute observation, because you’re practically creaming your fucking panties. “Like seein’ me with your knife?”
“Yes,” you breathe, and Harry flips the knife in his hands until the blade is just an inch from the spot between both of your eyes, your orbs crossing to see it. “What are you -”
Before you can finish the question Harry presses the knife forward, the sharp edge of the plate pressed to your cheek, and you inhale sharply, swallowing thickly as he increases pressure against your skin. Fuck, this shouldn’t excite you - he’s not half as good as you are with blades - and you’re sure if he keeps going he’s going to slice you either by accident or on purpose, and it disturbs you how much that thought turns you on.
The blade drags down your skin, tracing along your jawline with pressure light enough to feel like a breath and hard enough to catch yours in your throat - Harry’s watching it with darkened eyes, watching as he lowers it down your throat, tracing it along your neck and the veins.
You drop your head back against the door with a thud, feeling the cool metal on your skin, sweaty from being pressed against him and the heat that encompasses your body until it’s all you can feel, and Harry’s just watching, watching the knife run across your skin.
Your eyes, fluttered shut, shoot open when a sudden burning sensation overtakes the top of your chest - you glance down to see Harry pulling the knife away from you, the tip decorated with just a smudge of dark, red liquid that’s mirrored on your collarbone.
“Did you -?”
“Oops,” Harry says as you bring your fingers to the small nick he’d given you, wiping away the drops of blood that spread on your chest. You raise your narrowed eyes to glare at him and you’re trying - trying so hard - to be furious with him, to get angry, to push him away and yell at him - but, fuck, feeling his thumb rub across the cut on your chest only increases the ball of pressure in your lower abdnomen as you look at him.
Your lips clash once more, more intense than before as you whine into his mouth - Harry’s free hand hoists your thigh around his waist, and when his lips move down to bite at your throat, the hand still clutching your knife pulls back before he slams the blade into the door next to you, surely taking a few of your stray hairs. You yelp, jolting your head back as you whip your head to the side to stare at the knife stuck in the door barely an inch from the side of your head, and Harry lifts his head with a smirk.
“You assho -”
Before you can finish Harry’s hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your ability to speak and you can’t help but moan at the pressure even if the noise is choked and gasping - Harry grins, moving his other hand down to your hips until he’s helping you to roll against his thigh, clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants. You tighten your thigh’s hold around his waist, pressing his torso closer to yours, and he, in turn, tightens his grasp on your neck.
“Y’like m’hand on your throat, hmm?” Harry questions, voice low and raspy like how it had been in the middle of the night except more, better and intense, and you whimper in affirmation. “Can’t even talk - can’t even say anything.”
When he finally loosens his hold on you, you gasp for air and bring your arm up to wrap around his neck again, fingers scraping through his scalp to tug his lips back to yours. Your other hand drops to the front of his pants, palm smoothing over his bulging erection before your shaky fingers begin tugging his zipper down.
“Can I tell you something?” says Harry, then, as you fumble to undo the button of his pants until you can shove your hand into the fabric, fingernails dragging along his cock through his boxers - his hips jolt into your hands.
“Yes,” you murmur in response, hand jerking up and down his dick and, even through a layer of fabric, he grunts into your lips.
“I didn’t cum,” he says, and you move your head from his, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn’t cum, even when I heard y’with Vincent -”
“You -?”
“Didn’t wanna cum when I wasn’t buried in your cunt,” and you gasp sharply as his hand on your throat slides down your body until it’s shoved into your panties, cold fingertips dragging along your soaking folds that drip your ambrosia into his grasp. “Even f’you sounded so good, moanin’ for me - almost pathetic -”
You tighten your grip on his hair until he’s crying out, fingertips pinching your clit in your panties and you jerk your hips into his grasp at the sharp punishment. “Don’t call me that -” you moan, trembling hand pulling his boxers down over his cock while he smirks.
“Pathetic -”
“Fuck you, Harry -”
“Whimperin’ like a baby -”
You move your hand from his hair to his face, grip bruising as you grab his chin in your palm. Your fingertips squeeze his cheek as you force his head to stare at you - the lazy, cocky smile that adorns his features makes you want to throttle him, and your fingers flex against his face.
“What?” Harry questions, tone mocking and it fuels the anger in every crevice of your body as you glare at him. “Gonna hit me?”
Yes, you want to say - before you can even open your mouth, though, Harry leans in, teeth nibbling on your earlobe as he exhales, his words low and breathy, “Do it.”
Who are you to disobey him?
You bring your hand back and smack it down on his cheek with a satisfying slap that reverberates through your hotel room. His head is slapped to the side, exposing his side profile to you, and you smooth your palm over the red mark already blooming on his cheek in the shape of your handprint.
“You like to be hit, do you?” you inquire - for a moment, just a second, you feel some semblance of control over the situation, wrapping your fist around his cock once you’ve pulled his boxers down over his length. He hisses, dropping his head back, lips parted in a silent cry when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of his cock, precum dripping down his member. “Never would’ve guessed.”
And you do it again, bringing your hand up to slap his face and it tugs a louder grunt from his mouth, pressing his body further into yours until all you can feel is him, chests pressed together and cock rubbing against your cunt through the fabric of your lace panties. You bring your hand back to give him another slap but then his fingers are pulling your drenched knickers to the side, bulbous tip of his cock nudging through your folds for only a split second before he pushes himself inside of you, sheathing the entirety of his length until he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your skin.
You can’t help but sob out. It’s, really, not your fault - you can tell how it spurs him on, but before he can keep fucking you like how you’ve dreamt of he’s pulling out completely, taking a half a step away from you, cock tall and leaking. The emptiness you feel is overwhelming, even if you’d only had him in you for a few seconds at best, and objections immediately rise in your throat.
“What the fu -?”
Then he’s grabbing your throat, using his grip as leverage to force you around, cheek smushed against the wooden door frame and back pressed to his chest. His palms smooth up and down the globes of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart until the pressure burns and you throw your head back with a cry. Then he pulls his hand back - lands it back against your ass with a cracking slap that makes you jump against him - and he doesn’t give you a second to beg him to fucking do it again before he’s sliding his cock back into your folds.
“Fuck,” he practically shouts, the noise crackling and broken with arousal practically dripping from the syllable, and you drop your forehead against the door with a cry. “Fuck, so tight - knew y’would be -”
“Move, please,” you beg, tone sobbing and desperate, and Harry obliges without another second to spare - pulls out and thrusts back in, pace brutal and desperate right off the bat until you’re quivering, legs trembling when he’s only been going for a half a minute.
Oh my god. Holy fuck, it feels so good, better than you could’ve ever pictured it, his hand smoothing over your ass before landing periodic slaps to the plump skin - his hand landing on you hardly overpowers the sound of his hips smacking against your ass, filling you until you’re crying for it before leaving you empty and diving back in. You can’t do much else other than stand there on quivering legs that feel incapable of handling your weight and take it, pushing your hips back into his with every thrust until you’ve worked yourselves into a rhythm that makes your fucking head spin.
“Harry -” you gasp as he grabs hold of your hips, pulling them upwards until his cock is slamming into the sweet spot buried inside of your walls that makes you sob out, cheek slamming into the door over and over with the force of his pounding. “Harry - God -”
“What?” he practically hisses, the word full of desire and contempt in the most delicious way possible, and your knees would give out if not for his bruising grip on your hips, keeping you flush against him.
“Har - choke me, please, want you to - to choke me -”
He stutters a groan at that, moving one of his hands from your hips - he delivers one hard smack to your ass before he’s trailing his hand up your back and around to the front of your throat, squeezing your neck once experimentally just to hear the way you moan at it before he tightens his grasp. Your resulting whimper is caught in your throat, pressing your palms to the door you’re leant up against as Harry just fucking laughs from behind you, thrusting himself into you like he was fucking born for it.
“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Harry says, then, and he almost sounds in awe as he squeezes your throat tighter, tight enough that your vision goes fuzzy and your head feels light. “So filthy - knew y’would be - an’ so - so - fuckin’ - tight -”
With every word he punctuates his meaning with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, and the hand on your hip slithers around your body until he’s pressing two fingertips to your clit, rubbing shaking, hard circles against the sensitive nub that has you jolting, arms shaking as you attempt to keep yourself up. “Oh my god,” you practically cry, and the voice sounds far away as he briefly releases his hold on your throat - a firm slap is delivered to the side of your face as you’d given him, the motion forcing your head to the side, and you sob out harder. “Fuck - do it again, please -”
He obeys you, bringing his palm back to slap your cheek again before he wraps his hand back around your throat. “M’gonna cum,” he tells you, words throaty and laced with neediness - you push your hips back against his, a loud, long whine bursting from your throat as his fingers never give up on their assault to your clit. “M’gonna fill y’up - y’want that?”
“Yes!”
“Want me t’fill you up?”
“Yes, Harry, please -!”
You come undone around his cock just as his hips stutter to a close - there’s a ball of pleasure that bursts in your core, spreading warmth and euphoria through your body like a wildfire attacks a forest. Your forehead slams against the door with a moan that borders on a scream, nails scratching against the wood as though searching for something to hold onto, to ground yourself, because surely you’re far away - in fucking space - because there’s no way on Earth you could feel this good.
Behind you, Harry’s hand on your clit wraps around your waist, holding your body taut to his as you feel him spurt ribbons of cum inside of you, his release filling you up and it only prolongs yours, aftershocks rolling through you mixed with his warmth spreading through your body. His head drops against the back of yours, breath ruffling the hairs at the back of your neck, and when you finally regain the ability to breathe you’re fucking heaving, gasping for air, the once-simple process labored and desperate.
“Fuck,” Harry groans, and then he pulls out of you - you can feel his cum beginning to trickle down your inner thighs, and that mixed with the sudden emptiness in your cunt makes you exhale a low whine. Your pussy flutters around the sudden air invading it, the loss of a certain appendage filling you up glaringly obvious, and you slump against the door. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” you mumble, and your knees are shaking when Harry unwraps his arm from around your waist, leaving you to fend for yourself as you try and steady your body. “Fuck.”
You hear, then, Harry walking away - surely stalking deeper into your room, perhaps lying on the bed, kicking off his shoes and beginning to tug off his shirt. You feel sudden embarrassment and heat coursing through your body as you tug the bottom of your skirt down over your ass and the tops of your thighs, walking on shaking legs into the bedroom area of your hotel room -
(Your knife can stay in the door until morning. It is, for all intents and purposes, the least of your priorities when you can’t even think straight.)
Harry’s eyes are on you when you make your way into the bedroom section, leaning up against the doorframe to hide the quivering in your legs, and you hope it looks decently natural but you’re sure it doesn’t, judging by the way his lips tremble upwards as he glances down at the shoe he’s focused on untying.
“I’m gonna shower first,” you tell him. Your throat burns with the energy of speaking after screaming your lungs out and your voice is crackling and raspy - you cough into your elbow, hoping it makes your voice sound a bit less fucked-out than it is, but you’re sure you’re not that lucky.
“Fine by me,” Harry says, kicking his sneakers off onto the ground, and he collapses onto his back onto the bed with a sigh. His pants are still undone and are pushed down his thighs, boxers pulled up over his cock, and you feel - decidedly strange, watching him post-coital, at the way his eyes shut, limbs spreading out over the mattress with a grunt. “M’takin’ the bed, though.”
You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “What -?”
“Y’can hardly walk from how hard I fucked you. I think I deserve it.”
And - well - you can’t quite argue with that logic.
~~
TAGLIST (crossed out urls meant they didn’t show up)
Summary: It's almost the anniversary of starting your mission but Harry wants to celebrate a different anniversary
8.4k words (<- who let this happen)
A/N: this took forever to get to 😅 thank you for all your patience i hope this was worth the wait
C/W: light cursing, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, a little heated make out, references to old missions and family trauma, this is the safest chapter so far, enjoy the peace it won't last
Sweat drips down your forehead and your breaths labor harshly as you slow the treadmill to a crawl, reducing the speed from your harsh sprint down to an easy walk. Your earbuds hang precariously in your ear, threatening to expose the Kool & The Gang song you’ve been listening to. Almost a week after the island, and you still felt the grime of the night clinging to your skin. No matter how many showers you took, the filth feels embedded into your skin, another mission that would become permanently ingrained into your soul. Every mission left scars, some deeper than others. Resting your hands atop your head, you let your body ease down from your intense workout, watching yourself in the mirror. Upon inspection, you looked fine.
You wish that were true.
Upstairs, you’d have to dive back into your agency’s database, using the footage from the island to try to match faces with names. Scouring through missing kid files has become your new pastime. Rewatching the footage of that night was necessary but you could feel the familiar bile in your throat rising, threatening to escape your mouth and splash across your laptop screen with every frame. A whole wall in the office had been transformed into a collage of blurry photos, as many leads as you could print out, tied together with bits of multi-colored yarn Harry had picked up from Michael's. He said that red string was too cliche.
Harry had become especially attentive ever since you got back, and you found yourself allowing it. You didn’t shake off his hand when he rested it on your shoulder, checking in on how you were doing and you listened when he asked you to take a break. Before, you would’ve fought back against his kindness, would’ve been suspicious of his attempts to get closer, but now you were inviting him into the greenhouse, not wanting to be alone with your thoughts. As if overnight, the presence that once irritated every nerve had become comforting, a source of peace.
Not that it made opening up to him any easier. It wasn’t through lack of trying, you allowed little tidbits about your life to trickle out of you, sharing the most basic parts of you, but it wasn’t easy. Instinctually, you wanted to repair your crumbling walls, not keep breaking them down.
Trudging up the basement steps, you skip the shower, the slick of sweat masking the underlying filth you couldn’t wash off. Besides, your stomach is growling louder and the leftover Chinese food from last night sounds like the perfect breakfast.
Instead of eating sweet and sour pork and chow mein, though, when you reach the main floor, resting on the kitchen island is a pink cardboard box, brimming with donuts and pastries, next to a pot of yellow orchids, and a small booklet with a handmade cover, each page decorated with a small drawing and text like “Spend this coupon to receive one (1) full uninterrupted hour of gardening time” or “Spend this coupon to receive breakfast in bed (please use the night before)”. The coffee pot was still steaming with warmth, a mug sat nearby with a note underneath.
“Happy Anniversary, love,” read the note, Harry’s messy handwriting looping across the page, “Thank you for putting up with me for a whole year! Take the day off from work, and text me what you want for dinner. Have a fantastic day, honey!” In the corner, he had drawn a rudimentary flower and a tiny smiley face, another little doodle covered by big, thick inky marks. Holding the note up against the light, you can just barely make out its shape.
A heart.
Your face distorts itself, trying to make sense of the spread of gifts. Anniversary? What anniversary? Not that he was here to offer you any answers, he was away at his fake job, pretending to be Sam Thompson. Pulling your phone out, you snap a photo of the assortment of presents and send it to Harry, inputting a series of question marks in the text box. You go to set your phone down, but the vibration stops you, his response coming in quickly.
You: ?????
Husband: Happy Anniversary!! x
You: Yeah, I read the card. What anniversary?
Husband: Ours x
You: Our anniversary of what?
Husband: Of being together
Thinking back on the past year, you count up the days, tracing back through the past 365 days before your thumbs tap against the screen, typing in a response.
You: No, we didn’t get our assignment until the next day, the anniversary would be tomorrow
Husband: Sure, but I wasn’t celebrating our mission’s anniversary. I was celebrating ours x
Involuntarily, your head shakes with confusion, trying to make sense of what Harry is talking about.
You: Do you mean it’s been a year since we first met?
Husband: It’s kinda like an anniversary
You: No it’s not
Husband: An annual celebration?
You: NO
Husband: A yearly tradition?
A groan rumbles in your throat before you input a response.
You: Fine.
You: What do I need to get you?
You: To make this even.
Husband: I'd like to spend the night getting to know my wife x
Slamming the phone face down onto the counter, you take several steps away, needing to put physical distance between yourself and that message. You can feel your defenses hardening, your fortifications bolstered by the threat. A night, an entire night, dedicated to sharing personal information, opening about past traumas, exposing your family history, revealing your past… Flashing through your mind is every single moment of embarrassment and shame you’ve ever felt. Did he expect you to reveal that time you cried at the talent show in fifth grade, or the time you spilled fish food into your dad’s aquarium and accidentally killed everything? Would he expect you to reenact the playground insults kids used to hurl at you? What about the time, early in your career, when you’d caught the wrong criminal and the Governor of California was nearly assassinated? Just how much of yourself did you have to give away? Would you be left with any privacy, any dignity?
Before you can let your anxious thoughts overwhelm you, dragging you into a cyclone of despair, you walk away, leaving your phone with the rest of his gifts. You needed a clear head before you could fathom an appropriate response, and your skin was starting to stick together with your drying sweat, becoming overly aware of how gross your body felt.
Underneath the pelting water, each drop pounding against your skull, you let it wash away the past hour, the past day, the past week. Maybe if you kept turning the dial up, until the water turned to steam, you could burn away your imperfections, flushing them down the drain along with the dirty water.
The tile is cool against you back as you sink down to the shower floor, too tired to hold yourself up anymore. You understand what Harry was asking of you, you just didn't believe you could give it to him. Nobody had asked this of you before, no one had wanted to know you the way Harry wanted to. That information had only belonged to you, and it felt like you were conceding a part of yourself, losing pieces of you by uncovering them. You knew of the KGB tactic where spies were less likely to turn on a partner they were intimately close with, it made sense, but that was for spies working within the same agency. At the end of the day, you were loyal to your company more so than to a rival.
But your agency wasn't here. They weren't helping you with the mission, they didn't care about your safety, they didn't care to know you.
Sitting in the shower, water pouring over your head, you find yourself coming around to his invasive request. Harry wasn't unreasonable, he wouldn't pry needlessly, and there were plenty of questions you wanted to know about your husband.
Resolved to see this bullshit through, you take your time in the shower, thoroughly cleaning every inch of yourself. For the first time in a while, you felt actually clean. With your hair tied up in your towel and a robe tied around your body, you head back into the kitchen. Arming yourself with a full cup of still steaming coffee and taking a bite from one of the maple donuts, you flip over your phone screen.
Husband: It doesn't have to be a big deal darling, I just wanna spend the night with you and hang out x
You: I'll agree so long as you buy one of those extra large cookie pies from Romeo's
Husband: It takes half a cookie pie to get you to open up?
You: Bold of you to assume I was going to share
Husband: You're right, my bad x
Husband: Margarita pizza too? x
You: And the cheesy garlic bread?
Husband: Of course x
Husband: Thank you for agreeing to do this x
Your mouth quirks up at his gratitude. Who knows, maybe you’d enjoy yourself tonight.
“How’d you get your agent name?”
Blinking back your surprise, you hold up your wine glass for Harry to fill as you deliberate on how to answer. “We’re starting with the spy stuff?”
Pouring his own glass, Harry offers you a shrug. “Figured it’d be easier than the family stuff.”
The takeout boxes sit on the coffee table between you both, filling the room with the delicious smell of garlic, roasted tomato, and cheese. You’re already a few bites in on your first slice, preparing the food while Harry went to find the perfect wine to compliment your dinner. Before tonight, you’d avoided any alcohol, purging your system of everything you consumed on the island, but you were looking forward to a night of debauchery.
You grimace but nod along with his assumption, taking your time to sip on the wine. “It was given to me after I passed the initiation.” Shifting in your spot on the floor, you untuck your legs from underneath yourself, bending your knee so you could rest your elbow upon it. “Usually, you have a year to meet the job requirements or they let you go, but…” you trail off, unsure of how much you really need to share. “I had a lot of free time and I did everything they asked in half a year. Then, in the interview, they said- God, it was so stupid, I stormed through the challenges? So, Agent Storm was born,” you cheer dryly, lifting your glass marginally.
Harry nods, picking up on your tone. “You don’t like it?”
“Fuck no, it sounds like a twelve year old’s Xbox account.” Harry snorts, the sound echoing into the wine glass, creating ripples in the drink. His ease is infectious, or the wine is already taking effect, because you can feel yourself slipping easily into the comfort he oozed. “What about you, Agent Gold? Do you like your designation?”
He contemplates your question before shrugging. “I guess. I mean, it could’ve been a lot worse, so I’m grateful it wasn’t like… Agent Aquamarine or something.”
“Does your agency only use colors?”
“Yeah, they um,” he clears his throat, and scrunches his eyebrows, waving his hand around as he tries to find the right words. It’s the first time he seems uncertain about opening up. “They have us visit this… psychic and she reads our aura, and that becomes our alias.”
The wine glass in your hand wavers near your lips as you absorb his words before bursting into laughter. Even Harry, with pink creeping up his cheeks, lets out a half-hearted chuckle as he shakes his head.
“Jesus Christ, a golden aura. Are you also immaculately conceived?” you tease him, taking another sip of wine.
“Technically,” he interjects, “I had a yellow aura, but Agent Yellow was already taken.”
Coughing out the remains of your laughter, you ask before taking another bite of pizza, “How long ago was that?”
“You mean how long have I been a spy?” Shrugging, you just keep chewing your pizza at his question. Harry sighs as he does the math in his head. “About seven years now, including the six months of training I had to do. And you?”
“Five years,” you speak around your food. Swallowing down your bite, you hold up a finger, correcting yourself. “No, actually six, a few months ago it became six years. My company sent an e-mail.”
Raising a brow, Harry repeats, “An e-mail?” The nodding of your head makes him scoff. “I’d hate to see how they treat their shitty spies.”
“Oh, so you think I’m a good spy?” you tease, folding your hands beneath your chin and batting your eyelashes at him.
“Course, I do,” he answers easily. “And your agency must think so too if they assigned you on this case.”
Deep in your chest, a warm feeling expands, fluttering between your ribs. You never doubted your own abilities, you knew how hard you had to work to get here, the nights you sacrificed sleep in order to study, the injuries your body sustained during training, you had done so without complaint. In return, your agency offered scarce praise for your work, and you had long grown to never expect it. But the flattery that buzzed around in your belly whenever Harry complimented you was something you were becoming familiar with, savoring it even.
“So,” you transition, reaching into the pizza box for another slice, keeping your hands busy, “are we allowed to ask about missions?”
“I just complimented your spy work, you don’t need to keep fishing,” Harry chides playfully.
You don’t bother to hold back your snickering. “And what if I’m not convinced about your abilities?”
Harry’s jaw drops in a mockery of offense, placing his hand over his chest. “Ow, my pride! It’s been wounded!” He exaggerates the pain, gasping and scrunching up his face while you roll your eyes at his dramatis.
“Okay, well once your pride stops being a baby, you can tell me about your first mission.” Taking another bite of pizza, the sauce oozes out of the slice, gathering in the corners of your mouth. Your tongue darts out quickly, capturing the spilled tomato sauce before it drips lower. It's when your tongue slips out the second time, collecting the remainder that you feel the weight of Harry's gaze pinpointed on your mouth.
“My first mission wasn't anything exciting,” he dismisses, shaking his head. “Just hacking into the Duke of Gloucester's e-mail. The hardest part was guessing if his password was ‘admin' or ‘login’.” Swirling the remainder of his wine, he swallows it down before refilling his glass. “Okay, your turn, honey, what was your easiest mission?”
“Easiest, huh?” It doesn’t take long for something to come up. “A couple summers back, there was this German guy who had this whole manifesto about the perilous balance of peace and how it’s unachievable in the long run, blah blah blah. Anyway, he moved to Amsterdam, 3D printed his own sniper rifle and was planning on shooting up Dam Square.”
“Hold on,” Harry interjects, his pizza slice hovering near his mouth, “was his name Benedikt Schwarz?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you serious?! That was you?” The incredulous tone instinctually raises your defenses, assuming he didn’t believe you, but the crooked smile he wears quickly assuages those concerns. “One of my agents was assigned that case, and he was so pissed off that someone else got it first! God, I can’t believe my wife is the same person who beat Agent Indigo!”
There it is again, those butterflies of flattery, the beating of their wings is thunderous like applause.
“Wow, you’re right, Agent Gold isn’t that bad,” you deadpan, refusing to acknowledge his praise.
“How’d you decipher the message? Indigo still hasn’t worked that one out.”
Lifting your shoulder in a demure shrug, you say, “You can’t expect me to reveal all my secrets, can you?”
He shook his head with a laugh, taking a bite of his slice. “You’ll have to tell me before the mission is over,” he declares, mouth full of pizza. “I have to rub this in Indigo’s face when I go back, he’ll never live this down.” The shine of pizza grease on his lips makes it hard to look away.
“We’ll see. Now, I believe it’s my turn to ask.”
As the day darkens to night, the conversation passes easily between the two of you, the alcohol leeching into your bloodstream and loosening you up. Swapping stories, laughing casually, and sharing drinks together, it’s intimately domestic between the two of you. The pizza grew colder, the cheese stopped stretching between slices, Harry’s plate filled with the crust ends he didn’t eat. Your feet knock against his underneath the coffee table, making him yelp, complaining about how cold your toes feel. His leg hairs scratch against your bare shin, tickling the skin there. You can’t recall the last time you shared a genuine moment like this with someone else, sharing your life with another person. Even opening up about your failures was less daunting than you feared, your mistakes turning into a game of one upping each other.
I sprained three of my toes while on the run and now they don’t bend normally.
My thumb was never properly reset so I can make it do this!
Ew, put that away! That’s disgusting!
Leaning back against the couch, the stem of the wine glass precariously balanced between your fingers, you’re totally absorbed into the story Harry is telling of his time in Venice, drunkenly focused on how smoothly his lips move, the way his eyes sparkle in the lamplight.
“It was a fairly simple case, took only a couple weeks. But there was a lot of downtime between the stakeouts and everything, and it gave me the chance to just… explore the city.” As he reminisces, his eyes glaze over with fond nostalgia, and the barest smile tugs on the corner of his mouth. “There's this… tranquility there, like there's no rush, there's no demand, everything happens at its own pace. I was living with this old couple who were very set in their routines and every night, after dinner, Enrico would insist I play a round of Scopa with him. No excuse was ever good enough to get out of playing with him and he usually cheated, but I think that's the part I miss the most, the pattern of doing the same thing every night with someone.”
Humming contentedly, you can see the image clearly in your mind: Harry sitting across an elderly, tan man, arguing over cards, the air pinched with salt from the canal, voices carried across the water’s surface. “Your favorite mission is the one where you got to slack off the most?” you tease.
He huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, it was kinda like a vacation. It was nice to have a break. I haven’t had that much freedom on a mission since… not until this one.”
“I’m sure this is nothing compared to Italy,” you say wryly, shifting your gaze away, hiding behind your glass as you drink down the rest of it, finishing off your third of the night.
“No… the pizza isn’t half as good.”
Catching you off guard, you nearly choke on the wine, coughing a few times before clearing your throat. When you look back over at him, meeting his green-eyed stare, there's a playful glint in them, enjoying the way he can throw you off balance. Even drunk, he could always read you, he knew exactly how to get you flustered.
“Can I ask you something?” you question him.
“That's kind of the whole point of the night.”
You don't acknowledge his joke, something nagging on you since before you took on this mission. “What level are you?”
His eyebrows cinch, mouth pursing in confusion before answering with a loose shrug, “We’re about the same level, I think.”
The scoff was involuntary, sneaking out before you could prevent its escape. “That's not what my agency said.”
Harry's face scrunches up further into confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my agency told you guys that I'm a level below you but I'm actually a level above you.”
Still, his confusion remains, deepening even. “But my agency told yours I was a level below what I actually am. So we're at the same level.”
That doesn’t make sense.
“What do you need to do to reach your level?” you clarify, hopeful you’ll find a single discrepancy.
Counting on his fingers, his words are twinged with a slur as he lists off, “At least 50 successful missions, complete a shooting challenge in under a minute and a half, stay undercover from another agent for 48 hours, smuggle £10,000 out of the country, and pass 3 foreign language exams. It’s a lot more busy work than you’d think.” He tries to dismiss the accomplishments, brushing them off like they’re nothing.
To you, they sound familiar, though, eerily so. They sound like the exact challenges you had to endure to reach your current level. Was it possible that you were equals, that you had been on the same level all along?
Why did they lie? What was the point in pretending you were more experienced than him, stronger than him, smarter than him? Was this just another ploy from your agency, a test of your skills, an exercise to see how you’d adapt?
“But… but you- I thought…” you stammer through, trying to figure out how to say what you were thinking.
I thought I was better than you.
“Y’know,” Harry interrupts your spiraling thoughts, gathering up your dirty plates, “whenever my sister and I don’t agree on something, there’s only one way we can settle who’s right.”
“You misspelled ‘flavor’.”
“It’s the correct way to spell it,” Harry defends, sliding his U and R block beside your O.
“No, we’re in America, therefore we play by American rules!” you argue, reaching for the extra wooden tile, removing it from the game board.
The Scrabble box had been hidden inside the guest bedroom closet, the final resting spot for all the miscellaneous objects left behind by the previous tenants. Dust had gathered on picture frames and old toys, tracking your excavation until you found exactly what Harry was looking for. Now, perched up on the large guest bed, you’ve balanced your game atop the box lid, the board tipping precariously whenever one of you shifted on the bed.
“With a double letter on the F… that makes sixteen points.”
“Should be seventeen,” Harry grumbles, glaring down at the board, as if it were to blame for his low points. His accent is more apparent now, the British emphasis thickening with each sip.
You track the score on a spare piece of paper, combining Harry’s total points. Then you set your own tiles down, placing your S at the end of Harry’s recently added word. “I can’t believe you left the triple word score completely open. YES, worth eighteen points plus thirteen from FLAVORS equals 31 points,” you tally up smugly, recording your new points.
Harry uncorks the wine bottle, refilling his glass with the dark liquid. “Well, go ahead and ask your stupid question.”
Each round, you agreed to trade questions, whoever scored the highest would get to ask whatever they wanted, no holds barred, incentivizing you to play more aggressively than your competitive spirit already demanded.
“Do you think Dante is-”
“I’m not answering that, pick something else.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!” you whine, beating your fist against your thigh, too drunk to care about the childish tantrum you were throwing. Harry had brought up another bottle from the cellar and when you had both gone through that, a lot faster than the first, you had borrowed from your private stash you kept under your bed. Tomorrow, you would struggle to understand the scribbling marks that made up your points, but that wasn’t where your ire was directed right now. “You can’t shut down my question before I even ask.”
“Well, asking about my mom’s relationship with her bodyguard is off-limits,” he insists, grabbing a new set of letters from the black pouch. “Ask something else.”
Rolling your eyes, you scour your brain for something else you could ask, some other query you wanted an answer to. “Fine,” you concede, your next question becoming clear in your mind. “Why do you care so much when Peter flirts with me?”
Something passes over Harry’s features before he’s covering it up, clearing his throat. “Because you’re my wife, honey, I’m just playing the part.”
“No,” you disagree, your head shaking relentlessly, “Jessica is married to Sam, but you’re the one who gets annoyed by his flirting, not Sam. So why does it bother you?” In your sloshing brain, it’s important to make the distinction clear between himself and the character he plays, to acknowledge the difference between the two.
He heaves a sigh, his breath rushing through the curls on his forehead. “It’s the principle of the thing,” he maintains.
“But why does it bother you?” you press.
Eventually, Harry forces his breath out through his nose, rearranging the wooden letters on his game rack, avoiding your inquisitive gaze. “I know this marriage is a sham, I know you’re not my wife, but… I don’t want to be a bad husband. I don’t want to be like my dad.”
It makes you perk up, the first time he’s ever mentioned his father. You don’t say anything, hoping he’ll offer up more if you stay quiet.
“I was seven when he left. And as soon as he was gone, it was like… we could all breathe freely. He’s not a bad person, not really, he just wasn’t compatible with my mom. Everyday was an exercise in trying to not piss him off, he was constantly pissed, everything set him off back then. But once he was gone, my mom smiled a lot more, she played her music more, she danced. It was like she became a whole new person without my dad’s shitty attitude dragging everything down.” Harry shakes his head, his lips pull back into a grimace. “Like I said, he's not a bad guy, he also became a completely different person after the divorce finalized. But he made my mom miserable, for years, for no other reason than he was too selfish to put someone else's feelings over his.”
Harry finally brings his gaze up to yours, his resolve hardening his stare. “I hate it when Peter flirts with you because I can tell it bothers you. It's like the prick gets off on making you uncomfortable. And I hate that someone can come around and bother my wife and I can't do anything about it. Real or not, I don't want my wife to be miserable.” He averts his gaze once more, whispering more to himself, “I don't want to be like my dad.”
Pity twists in your belly, the false image of perfection you thought Harry had been raised in crumbling in your mind. You knew about his dad leaving, it had been listed in his personnel file when you first arrived, but the extra details were redacted, thick black bars obscuring the information. To hear Harry's version, though, the situation was a lot more complicated than someone choosing to walk away from their family, choosing to neglect their responsibilities. But that didn't stop Harry from carrying the hurt his dad created anyway.
“You don't make me miserable, Harry,” you attempt to soothe, your drunken mind adding in a caveat you can't stop yourself from sharing. “I mean… yeah, I've been pretty miserable, but that's not your fault. Well… not specifically your fault, I would've been miserable with anyone, that's not-" The only way you can get your mouth to stop moving is by smushing your face into your palms, releasing a long drawn out groan at your excessive blabbering.
“No, keep going, sweetheart,” Harry encourages sarcastically. “I was just starting to feel better.”
“Stahpit!” you grumble into your hands, peeking at his cocky smile between your fingertips. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I get it, you've been miserable and I've been a shite partner.”
“No!”
“I'm just a constant disappointment.”
Some of the tiles jostle in their space when you reach across the board, grabbing onto his hand. “Hey, no, seriously, I’ve been miserable because of my own personal bullshit. You’ve actually been the least worst part of this whole thing.”
Harry chuckles heartily. “You know what, I’ll accept that, only because this is going to hurt and I’m not sorry about it,” he mocks, laying down all seven of his letters, creating the word ABJECTLY off of the letter Y you placed, earning 125 points all at once.
Your jaw drops open at the deceitful play. The longer it takes you to add it all up, the wider Harry’s smirk curls, growing more and more smug in his seat.
“Should I go ahead and ask my question or do you think you can beat that?”
The collection of vowels you’re currently hoarding on your rack could never match his points, or even get close. Even still, you hate to give in so easily, laying down your letters with a grumble, earning a paltry seventeen points for UVEA. “Ask away.”
His stare is devious, sparkling with mischief while he rubs his hands together. “Hmm… let's see…” he says, pretending like he hasn't had his question prepared for the past few rounds. “Out of all the rooms in this house, love, why the bloody hell did you choose the teen bedroom for yourself?”
“That’s your big question?”
“Answer it, darling!”
“It’s a stupid question!”
“Answer it!” Harry’s shoulders begin to shake as he sings his response, dancing to some beat he’s created in his head. “Answer it!”
Groaning, you roll your eyes, focusing on fixing the tiles that had been knocked askew instead of Harry’s inquisitive stare. “Don’t you want to use your question to ask something more embarrassing or personal?”
“I think the fact you don’t want to answer this one means it’s embarrassing and personal, darling,” Harry retorts, still shimming his shoulders to the imaginary beat.
With a heavy sigh, you reveal, “It reminded me of Suzy Johnson’s room.”
After a beat, Harry stops his dancing, gently pressing, “Who’s Suzy Johnson?”
Technically, you don’t have to give in to his prying, but seven glasses in and the rules seem less rigid than when you set them. “Suzy’s the girl who invited me to her thirteenth birthday party. It was the first time my parents let me go to a sleepover, the last time too,” you admit wistfully, reflecting on the party fondly. “She said she was an eco-goth, she had crystals and tarot cards and she read her birth chart to predict what the next year would look like. Her room was purple and had all these golden astrological symbols painted on the ceiling. I thought she was so cool and the fact that her parents supported her was… I was jealous. Then my parents said they didn’t like Suzy and they were worried she’d turn me into a freak like her so I wasn’t allowed to hang out with her again. But that room stuck with me. So when I got here, and I saw the purple wallpaper… I had to take it.” When you finish your explanation, you lift your eyes off the board, all the tiles returned to their rightful place.
Harry wears a soft grin, affable and affectionate. “And I thought you just wanted to make sure you didn’t have to share a bed.”
“That’s a good excuse,” you say with a laugh, adding on, “And there’s… another reason.”
“Oh yeah?”
Biting your lip, you get up from the bed, the game tiles scattering across the board again as it rattles at your movement. You’re practically skipping out of the guest room and into your room across the way, hunting for the orange Nike shoe box that had been stuffed in the back of your closet, forgotten by the previous owner. Harry legs extend across the bedding, his foot knocking into the other incessantly as he waits for your return.
“I was saving this for after the mission was over.” Lifting up the cover, you expose the box’s contents: an old Bic lighter, rolling papers, and a thick, airtight jar half-filled with buds of marijuana.
“You’ve been holding out on me!” Harry accuses you, picking up the jar, inspecting the drugs inside. “Is it any good?”
“No idea,” you admit with a shrug. “I figure if it’s green, it can’t be bad, right?”
Harry twists the lid off, giving the cannabis a cautionary whiff before lifting his shoulders in a similarly apathetic shrug. “I’m willing to risk it if you are.”
The burn of the weed winds around your lungs, seeping into your system before you exhale, pushing the smoke out of your body before it floats up towards the ceiling, dissipating into the air. With a hand behind your head, your other one taps the blunt, knocking the excess into an ashtray on the nightstand. The Scrabble board is abandoned, tiles scattered across the bedroom, a mess to deal with another time. “I’m just saying, if there’s no prize money, then what’s the point of taking several weeks off of work to do a baking competition?”
“It’s not about the money, love, it’s about possibility of getting to shake Paul Hollywood’s hand,” Harry argues, pinching his fingers together to indicate he wants the joint. Currently, he’s sitting cross legged on the floor, leaning back against the bed.
Passing it to him, you cough twice before continuing. “Yeah but so what? Can I exchange the handshake for baking lessons? Can I submit my Paul Hollywood handshake to a baking school and get accepted?”
Harry inhales the marijuana, holding it in as he says “I think you’re too concerned about the monetary value,” he pauses to exhale, his voice raspy from the smoke, “and not the experience as a whole, love.”
“The whole experience is a farce,” you decry, covering your face with your forearms, having uncovered the conspiracy behind the BBC. You’re becoming stuck in the connections between baking competition shows and time travelers in police boxes when you suddenly burst out into laughter. “Doctor Hollywho.”
Joining in with your snickering, Harry sneaks another puff, choking a little on the inhale. “Okay Sherlock, we might wanna dial back your usage.”
“No, good husbands share their weed with their wives. It's in our vows.”
“Sweetheart, we don't have vows.”
“It's in our contract,” you amend, waving your hand dismissively before taking the dwindling joint back for yourself. “Thou shalt share-eth thy drugs.”
Harry rolls his lips into his mouth as he tries to contain his giggles. “When's the last time you've done this, darling?”
“Before I graduated high school. My sister would bring home a stash from college and then forget about it, and then, one day, she just never came back and I didn't know how to get my own so I just stopped.” Silence takes over as you regain your breath, expending it all as you explained your drug history, without fully comprehending what other parts of yourself you were revealing. Harry mumbles something you can’t quite make out, so you turn your head, facing him as you hum. “What was that?”
“On the island,” Harry starts, “you said ‘everybody leaves’. Was that about your sister?”
Stalling with a deep inhale, you let the smoke linger in your chest, swirling with the oxygen before you release it with a heavy sigh. “Partly… yeah.”
“She just left?”
“I can’t blame her for leaving, our parents weren’t the kind of people who should’ve had kids. I just… didn’t expect her to leave me behind.”
“I’m sorry, love,” Harry apologizes in a whisper, leaning his head back, the both of you watching as the fan spins, making the ceiling behind it spiral as well.
The whirlpool of popcorn ceiling mirrors your winding mind. Your missing sister, like the unnamed girls on Nox’s island, people who disappeared from their families without a trace, and the people who took advantage of the runaways. It all starts to make you feel nauseous, clenching your eyes closed, letting your head droop to the side. When you blink them open, your eyes are immediately attracted to the blush pink of Harry’s lips, lightly pursed, his nostrils gently flaring through each exhale. He appears peaceful in the moment before his eyes slide over to you, curiosity altering his features.
“Why did you kiss me?”
Harry’s head snaps upright as he directs all his attention onto you, taken aback by your unexpected question. “Huh?”
“In Peter’s library, why’d you kiss me?” you reiterate, tracking the subtle changes in his face. The pinch of fright when you ask, the burning blush that highlights his cheeks, the mask of indifference he hides behind as he smirks.
“Oh, now you wanna talk about that?” Harry questions you. “If I remember correctly, we had gotten into the car and I said ‘Do you wanna talk about what just happened?’ and you said, again, correct me if I’m wrong, ‘It was a good distraction’.”
“It was **a good distraction,” you agree, “but why’d you do it?”
“It just…” Harry trails off, scrunching up his face and groaning as he tries again. “I thought that… I don’t know… I guess you called my bluff, darling.” Shaking his head, Harry looks back at you, releasing a long sigh. “Peter wants you, you’re the reason we’re making any progress on this mission, and all I’m good for is watching you succeed while I’m left behind. So when you said you could offer Peter something… something in me snapped. I wanted to prove I was more useful than just distracting some bored socialite with too much time on her hands. And for some reason,” he averts his gaze sheepishly, his cheeks deepening in color, “I thought the best way to do that would be to kiss you.”
Hearing him list his insecurities, opening up about feeling inadequate, it's something you would've never expected to hear from him. This past year, you’ve felt like you had to prove yourself all while he felt like he was scrambling to catch up to you. Both of you had been battling the same fight, silently warring against your internal monologues, desperate to justify your role, your skills, your place in this mission.
If only one of you had spoken up sooner. If only you hadn’t been so judgmental and defensive when you met. But you can't admit to that, not to him.
“For some reason?” you ask instead.
“For some reason,” Harry nods along.
Your fingers pull at a loose thread on the bedding, loosening the seams of the comforter. “Would you, for some reason, ever do it again?”
When he lifts his gaze to you, he holds his breath for a beat, before saying, “Ever do what?” You can tell through his bloodshot eyes that he knows exactly what you’re talking about, but he’s needling you to clarify, making you elaborate.
“Kiss me.” Saying it quickly, getting it all out at once makes it simpler, like it's not a big deal. Like you haven't tried to manufacture reasons to justify sneaking a kiss here or there. Like you haven't fantasized about what would've happened that night if Peter hadn't walked in.
Harry blinks rapidly, his chest rising and falling shallowly before he takes the blunt from you. “Wow, okay, you are crossfaded as hell, honey,” he dismisses you, inhaling a final puff, then discarding the roach into the ashtray. “I’m going to head downstairs and grab a glass of water for you.”
While Harry struggles to stand up, an annoyed bug starts buzzing in your head. He didn’t answer your question. That was the point of this whole night, this whole thing was about sharing and opening up but here he was, walking away from your inquiry, avoiding giving you an answer. He stumbles towards the door, his steps faltering through his inebriation.
Fueled by the fury of being ignored, and a growing unnamable burn in your belly, you stalk after Harry, catching up with him before he’s reached the door. The pounding of your determined steps cause him to turn around, surprised to see you following after him. Your hands push against his chest, shoving him back into the wall. Harry emits a short, startled grunt, his hands coming up by his head as he looks down at you, his pupils blown out wide in his red rimmed eyes. For a second, you stand there, your body pressed up against his, his shirt crumpled between your clenched fists.
Then you’re leaning up on your toes, your hands sliding around his neck and tugging him down, your lips rushing to meet Harry’s. Smushed together, your lips collide, teeth clattering against each other. His mouth tastes the same as yours, the bitter burn of the marijuana unable to mask the bite of garlic, the robust wine lingering underneath it all. Harry takes in a startled breath before he sighs with a groan, the sound swallowed by your mouth. Lowering his hands, they rest on your hips, pulling you in closer, making you lean into him further.
His lips mash into yours in a familiar cadence. The soft press of his lips, the careful way he touches you, all these restrictions he's placing on himself, hiding behind his alias, kissing you as Sam instead of kissing you as himself. Frustrated, you nip at his lips, twist your fingers in his hair, rolling your body into his, trying to find the button, the right combination of moves to activate Harry mode. But he remains stubbornly within his role, trapped behind the facade of Sam Thompson.
Pulling back, Harry tries to chase after you, lips still puckered, but you hold up a hand, barring his kiss, stopping him in his place. “I don't want Sam,” you tell him, eyes blazing. “I want you, Harry.”
You watch the shift across his face, his green eyes darkening, his lids dropping until they're hooded, his moan vibrating against your palm. Slapping your hand aside, Harry surges forward, dragging you back into him. One hand curves around your thigh, hooking it around his hip, the other slides into your hair, using his grip on your head to give himself control over your movement. Slotting your lips together, this kiss is unrestrained emotion and heated passion, absent of the previous trepidation. You’re nearly knocked off your feet as he pulls you in, stumbling forward with a squeak and holding onto his shoulders for support, making his smirk grow against your lips.
Using your hair to tug your head back, Harry dives into your exposed neck, his teeth sinking into your pulse point. He sucks on the spot, his tongue lathing over it, encouraged by your breathy whines to keep going. Huffing and panting and groaning, he’s attacking your skin with an animalistic fervor. His grip on your thigh climbs up to your ass, clenching at you through your clothes.
“No marks,” you complain, patting your hand against him, but he doesn’t let up. “Hey!”
“Just cover ‘em,” he mumbles before latching back onto your neck.
Reaching into his curls, you yank his head back, using his own trick on him. The sticky suction of his mouth is loud in your ear when you disconnect his mouth from you. A string of saliva dangles from his lip when you glare at him, his eyes hazy as you twist your hand in his hair, his hands trembling by your side. “No. You listen to me,” you order, slowly to make sure he understood each word.
“Yes, ma’am,” Harry whimpers, succumbing to your command instantly.
“Now, do what I say and kiss me!”
Harry lunges forward, forcing you backward as he reconnects your lips, running his tongue over your bottom lip. Forcing you back, you nearly trip over your feet until you feel the mattress hit the back of your thighs. The Scrabble board falls over, knocked onto the floor, the sound startling you but Harry doesn't let you escape this time, keeping you securely latched onto him. Instead, he maneuvers his knee in between your legs, the nearness of his thigh to your crotch making your body twitch in anticipation, becoming tightly wound, on the brink of being unraveled. But he doesn't rub you along him, doesn't press his thigh close. Leaning his knee on the bed, his hands slide underneath your legs, lifting them up at the same time he falls forward, catching himself before he falls completely on top of you. You feel that momentary free-fall, the wind rushing past your skin until you land on the bed, Harry's hands on either side of your face. Taking a pause, both of your chests brushing against each other with your heavy pants, Harry looks down at you, tracing a finger around your jaw. Then he's slowly leaning down, tracking each minute change in you, from your breaths becoming the slightest bit more shallow, your eyes widening just a fraction more, the gradual opening of your legs, accepting more and more of him, wanting him even closer. You'd deny it all if he brought it up later, would say he's exaggerating how eagerly you presented yourself, which is why he's taking his time, needing to memorize each second, filing that information away.
Both of you sigh when Harry finally kisses you, all the building anxiety disappearing once your lips collide. He's still gentle with you, but in a way distinctly different from his alter ego. Sam was scared of breaking his wife, politely holding himself back, but Harry wasn't as concerned about your frailty, knowing you can handle him. Even still, he only used a single finger, brushing it on the underside of your chin in order to direct your head exactly where he wanted it. His nails dug through your clothing as he wrapped your legs around his waist, softening his touch to then rub gentle circles where his nails pierced into you. And he was mouthy as hell. Through grunts, groans, and growls, Harry responds to all your movements with a melody of approving sounds, making it easier to catalogue what he likes. Tugging on his curls makes him bite your lip, rutting your hips up to his makes him moan into your mouth, and, most importantly, when you wrap a hand around his throat, the light pressure causes his arms to give out. The weight of him collapsing on top of you makes you smile through the kiss.
Making out with someone you barely know, in a room that isn't yours, a bed you've never slept in, feels like the teenage experience you never had. Your hormones feel just as wild, your neurons sensitive to these horny sensations. Usually, when you were seducing someone, your brain was preoccupied with mission details, planning an escape route, wondering how long you need to keep up the charade. Without those distractions, you're thinking about what other sounds Harry could make and how to cause them, which one of you could kiss the longest without coming up for air, your thoughts growing more nasty when you feel Harry's bulging member thrusting into the space between your thighs. He's so close to pressing into exactly where you're craving, where your heat pulsates. All it takes is the briefest nudge, adjusting yourself as he thrusts forward, his thick member running up through your center, the pressure against your clit making you shiver beneath him.
“Mmm, oh Harry,” you groan, your breath catching on a gasp.
That causes Harry to freeze above you, pulling back with rapidly blinking eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly before he focuses his gaze on you. His hair sticks up in random sections from your explorative hands, his eyes are red and glazed over from the weed, and his jaw hangs loosely, his puffy lips forming words that he doesn't give voice to. With a sigh, he rests his forehead on yours, shutting his eyes close, nuzzling his nose into yours as he collects himself.
“Harry?” you whisper. Your voice sounds normal now, less pitchy and whiney than earlier.
“I'm fine,” he reassures you quickly, too quickly. “I just… I'm going to get you that water now.” Without opening his eyes, without offering you a glance, Harry pushes off the bed, putting distance between the two of you, turning back towards the door. “Do you want anything else?” he tosses over his shoulder, his steps never stopping, not waiting for an answer as he exits out of the room.
There was an obvious answer you wanted to yell after him. I want you back here now!
You played that game earlier, chasing after him when he tried to leave. Now, you couldn't make the same move, you couldn't come off that pathetically desperate, couldn't seem like you wanted him when he was currently walking away.
So he left the room without objection, leaving you breathless and confused, laying the wrong way on the bed, with the lingering thought of Did that just fucking happen? And had he really just walked away from it all, leaving you pliant and panting in an empty bed, your crotch aching with a desire that hasn't been unleashed in over a year?
An exasperated laugh escapes you through short breaths, silent and dumbfounded as you run your fingers through your hair, sure it was just as messy as Harry’s. When you rub your eyes with the palms of your hands, the pressure blooms behind your lids, reminding you of how late it’s gotten. The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, now your body was catching up with the exhaustion you’d been subconsciously ignoring.
In the morning, you'd argue away your curiosity as a symptom of your intoxication, a side effect of the night’s debauchery. As your eyes drift shut, your lips still tingling with the memory of Harry, you let yourself be carried away to sleep contentedly.
For the first time since your trip, the island doesn’t follow you into your dreams.
Drunk Husband, Pissed Wife - Mr. and Mrs. Styles Chapter 2
Mr. and Mrs. Styles Masterlist
Summary: At Sam's office party, it's your first opportunity to get close to Peter. Unfortunately, more than just the alcohol is going to be spilled tonight.
11.6k words
tag list: @maudie-duan @daphnesutton
A/N: thank you for your patience (i'm never announcing a deadline again, holy shit). if you'd like to be tagged in future updates, let me know and i'll add you to the tag list. things are starting to heat up. enjoy 😊
CW: attempted drugging (everyone's safe), consumption of drugs and alcohol, angst, fighting, cursing, sexism/misogyny, mentions of masturbation, brief mentions of torture, and brief mentions of sexual abuse/harassment (nothing happens)
If someone were to ask for opinions on marriage, Jessica would love to gush about her husband. The lovely meals he cooks no matter how late it is, his offers to rub her feet after a long day, and the cute workouts they do together every morning before making each other’s breakfasts. Jessica could go on and on about her husband’s physical form, how it’s so nice to see a man taking care of his body, but not in a way that makes him unbearable. Fitness was important, but he also took the time to read at least one chapter of whatever book he was working his way through before bed. Speaking of the bed, it’s the one area Jessica is more demure about. She likes to wave away the questions with a simple “I don’t kiss and tell” but it’s always said with a sly smile, leaving little hints where people could seek them out.
You, on the other hand, are counting down the days to divorce. Marriage has been a persistent nuisance and it’s only been a few months.
Sam has been an incessant thorn, a splinter buried deep in your skin. Privacy was a thing of the past, even with three floors and a basement to hide in. If it weren’t for the necessary blood sample, you’d consider squirreling away in the secret bunker. Somehow, wherever you had hidden yourself after work, Sam would intuit it and seek you out. He’d want to talk about his day and then ask about yours, question what you wanted for dinner or if you wanted to order from that new sushi place that opened up. Sharing neighborhood gossip, repeating a joke his coworker told him, asking if Constantine the Great was actually all that great, his voice stalks you throughout the home, that deep British cadence starting to echo inside your head when he’s not around.
Even at work, Sam’s voice haunts you. Dealing with annoying patrons who treat you more like a high school history teacher instead of a museum curator, you can hear his lilting voice trying to back you away from the edge. “They want to pick that clever brain of yours, beautiful.” They always ended that way too, with some asinine nickname. He never settled on one, always looking for some new word to foist upon you.
A few weeks ago, you had taken up gardening again. The solarium now bloomed with variegated pothos, wiry spider plants, and a venus fly trap you've named Chomper. Fingers drenched in soil felt nostalgic for you, having to give up the hobby when you began training to become a spy. Caring for these plants has become your one source of peace.
What isn't peaceful is your loud husband barging into your haven of greenery to talk about finances and numbers and Caleb’s funny new golf tie. Except, he'd adopted new terms of endearment for you when inside the solarium. Flower, petal, bluebell, blossom, dahlia, my rose, daisy, poppy, sunflower, it was never-ending!
The spy glasses he was supposed to wear would be left behind “accidently”. First time, you let it slide, a little smug at his slip up. Second time, you made sure to put them on his face the next morning, giving his nose a boop as a reminder. Third time, you broke into his office at work and left a spare pair on his desk with a tiny red bow you had thrown on a little passive aggressively. When you finally confronted him after the fourth time, he deflected.
“They’re uncomfortable.”
“We can get you a different style.”
“That wouldn’t look weird, to suddenly change my glasses?”
“Say you’re trying a new subscription service, you want to change your style, I don’t know. Improvise!”
It was the closest you two had gotten to a real fight.
From what you did see of his recorded days, there wasn’t much progress made in terms of the case. Sam didn’t have a lot of opportunities to see his boss, Peter Heathrow, the current target of your mission. The few times Peter was even on Sam’s floor, he appeared nonchalant to everyone. Unimpressed by flattery, bored by presentation, and fueled by the thrill of humiliating his employees for the smallest mistakes, there wasn’t an easy opening for Sam to exploit. You were left helpless to do anything but watch Sam fill out financial data for the quarter and laugh along with his coworkers’ sexist jokes about their wives. On top of monitoring Sam’s work day, you had to manage your own fake job as a museum curator, keep up social obligations with the neighbors, and in your free time, search through the case files to try to find someway else you could move forward. Someway you could feel like you’re contributing to this mission.
You’re inside your solarium tending to your precious plants, recuperating after a rough day of unloading the sculptures for the local high school’s welding final in your community room. The serenity of greenery easing the tensions from the day when your husband thunders into the room, an excited grin stretched tight across his face.
“Blossom! Guess who’s my date to the office party this weekend.”
Despite all evidence to the contrary, you’re hoping he’s talking to someone else.
“I want to take the lead tonight.”
Sam is in the middle of a shower when you barge into his bathroom, saying something he can't quite make out from underneath the water. He sticks his head outside the curtain and looks at you curiously. “Huh?”
You heave a sigh, annoyed at having to repeat yourself. “I want to take the lead tonight,” you assert.
Watching all that footage of Sam's work, you've noticed that not a single woman works on Sam's floor. After a little more digging, it turns out that only one woman worked in the entire company. A court case accusing several office heads, Peter Heathrow included, of sexual misconduct and harassment explained the lack of diversity. Unfortunately, the case was “mysteriously" thrown out before consequence could be dolled out.
As gross as it makes you feel, it's an opening you can exploit easier than Sam could.
You're ready to give your practiced arguments as to why you should lead the mission when Sam nods his head. “Good idea, love” he says, ducking back underneath the warm water.
Confusion stiffens your body, holding you still. You aren't expecting him to just agree with you. Work had set up the precedent of fighting over any miniscule crumb, squabbling for any role. Plus, you'd prepared a speech detailing different scenarios that could play out and how you would approach them. Sam didn't seem to want to hear it, though. Just blindly following your command.
“Need anything else, dear?”
“No. No, I uh- I've gotta get dressed,” you trail off, speaking more to yourself. You turn around and open the door to leave, still bothered about Sam's apathy.
“Is that how you’re wearing your hair?”
You stop in the doorway, looking back to see his head peeking out of the curtain again.
“Maybe,” you say, defensively shrugging. Some days, fighting with a blow dryer was more difficult than shooting a moving target in a crowd and today was one of those days, so you settled your hair into a lightly styled but still loose and casual look.
“I like it,” Sam smiles. “And your makeup really highlights your eyes in this sexy, sultry way. You're gonna make me the envy of the whole department, baby.”
Closing the door, you head upstairs to your own bathroom, calculating if you have enough time to do something else with your hair.
“… and I tell him, ‘If you wanted a cheap divorce, you should’ve married a rich woman, at least she’ll pay her own legal fees.’” Too much boisterous laughter compliments the slight, fueling Sam’s coworker with an overinflated ego boost. A polite smile graces Jessica’s lips despite the fury roiling inside your brain. Jessica has to play along, lest she be relegated to the ‘wives table’ on the opposite side of the room.
For an office cocktail party, there was an extreme level of opulence dripping from each Greek inspired column. Large bolts of red fabric drape across the top of the room, a life size fountain dispenses bubbling champagne, and caterers offer canapés in skimpy, barely-held-together togas. The theme must be a familiar one, some of the guests donning plastic laurel wreaths leaking gold spray paint, some women wearing dresses that reminisce the time period with stylistic wrapping. One man has donned a Party City Spartan warrior costume, to the amusement of only himself.
The dress you had chosen feels wildly inappropriate compared to the wardrobe of the other guests. A deep v neck that wouldn’t be acceptable until this century and the rich purple color that would’ve taken thousands of sea snails to replicate stands out against a sea of modest pastel drapery. It’s not embarrassment that makes you hyperaware of the dress code, it’s the sharp glares from the other wives that alerts you to the faux pas. While you understand their anger, you wish they directed it at their husbands who wouldn’t stop racing their eyes up the slit in your dress like it’s a track course and the winner might get a “special prize”.
Jessica has been placating Sam’s drunken coworkers, tittering at their terrible jokes, but you needed to find your target.
Sipping on his whiskey, Sam nods along with the story of Ezra’s WordArt snafu with a Japanese client (How was I supposed to know the calligraphy font would change the words to make it look like I was calling him an ignorant buffoon). Sam maintains a hand wrapped around your waist, securing you to his side. Whenever one of his coworkers gawks at your body, he tugs you closer, running his thumb against your ribs. If you sneak a glance, you can see a tick of annoyance mar his otherwise perfectly primmed face.
You only allow yourself glances because for some reason, if you let your eyes linger, it becomes deceivingly difficult to look away. The lighting highlights his pecs, his shirt unbuttoned dangerously low for a work party. A peek of his sparrow tattoos drives your brain wild and you don't understand why. Was it his freshly shaven face, the naked skin highlighting his sharp jaw? Was it the new cologne he was wearing that reminded you of walking the streets of Spain at night, smelling the local flora while stalking a target? Or was it because you’ve only gotten glimpses of Sam wearing those spy glasses and now you’re confronted with how good they look on him?
Ignoring all those possibilities, you chalk up your inability to look at Sam as adrenaline. Surely, all the excitement from the case was fogging up your mind, causing your brain to malfunction.
There’s a commotion near the entrance, a disheveled man knocking over one of the caterer’s plates. The platter connects with the ground in a clanging mess, splattering hors d'oeuvres around the floor. The gong-like sound splits across the room, silencing all other noise. Until the disgruntled man lashes out with a booming, “What are you STARING AT? I thought this was a GODDAMN PARTY!” Everyone adjusts their gaze, except for you and your husband.
Your target has finally arrived.
Both of you watch as he stumbles his way to the open bar, nearly knocking the seat over before he slumps down atop it. You look up at Sam, those damn sparkling emeralds alight with mischief. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, mumbling into your hair, “Go get him, babe!”
Peter Heathrow nurses a drink alone at the bar, his tight shoulders warding off his employees from approaching. His glasses lie on the precipice of his nose, his tie drapes low on his neck, and his drink never strays too far from his mouth.
You approach the bar, a few spaces down from where he sits. “Can I get a whiskey neat and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon?” Jessica asks the bartender, just loud enough to catch Peter's attention.
He snorts, the sound echoing in his glass, his breath blowing the alcohol back into his face. “What a dutiful wife,” Peter slurs. He gives you a sharp sneer as he takes on a mocking voice. “One for him, and one for you.”
Jessica offers him a sly smile as the bartender passes over the whiskey. “Actually, they're both for me.” Peter raises his brow and watches with growing awe as you tilt the glass back in a quick gulp. Behind a polite hand, Jessica hides a giggle at his expression. “My husband doesn't like it when I outdrink his colleagues,” she explains. “But I can't stand to hear another statistic about the fiscal quarter without a little buzz.” The bartender leaves your wine on the counter but you choose not to acknowledge it, maintaining eye contact with your target, letting them linger on him longer than necessary.
With the lubrication of the alcohol, Peter is more malleable in your manipulative hands. He finally sets the glass on the counter, ripping his concentration from the drink to your body, the dress accentuating all the right places if his wandering eye is to be believed.
“Right? Like, we're at a party. Can we not talk about work for once?” He chuckles as he shakes his head and you generously join in. “This could be the wildest party, with… with strippers and a- a giant disco ball, and Ezra would still want to discuss how much more,” he pauses to clap his hands together, miming the motion before finding the word, “a-applause his PowerPoint got than Jeremy's.”
“Too bad no one has the balls to tell Ezra that he only gets more applause because people are happy he's finally shut up,” you retort with a smirk. Going through Sam's videos, you once caught Peter mentioning how tedious and droll Ezra's presentations were and if Peter really needed to come down a floor each week to “listen to a seal bark his 10 minute presentation for a half hour". Your target lets out a wheeze of laughter before it comes coughing out in fits. He takes a final sip of his drink before laying down the empty glass. “How about this?” you offer Peter, maneuvering into the seat next to him. “I'll buy you another drink if you can keep me away from Toby's ranking of Excel spreadsheet shortcuts.”
A misshapen smile sloshes across Peter's face as he nods, his eyes drifting over your chest, your legs, any bit of exposed skin he can linger on. The conversation loops around to your job, which hooks him immediately. Turns out, the party theme is one of his favorites due to his love of Greek culture. He attempts to impress you with his knowledge, asking if you know about the Peloponnesian War (doesn’t specify which one), confusing Roman myths with Greek ones, and, of course, Did you know Hades isn't actually a bad guy? Interspersed between his misinformed retellings, he'll get distracted with a passing employee, complain about how uncultured they were compared to him, before butchering Oedipus Rex. There's inklings of information you coax out of him about a friend of his, one who's not as banal as the guests here, one who has a real appreciation for art and culture, before clearing his throat and returning back to you, going off about Caleb’s tacky golf ties. “I swear he has one for every day of the month. A week would be obsessive, but a month? Pfft.”
After he sips the final bit of drink from the second round you've bought for him, you realize that getting him drunk isn’t going to expose what you want. Perhaps, you’d have to try a different kind of game.
Jessica grabs her untouched wine and starts to stand up. “Thank you for the break, Mr. Heathrow, but I do have to get back to my husband. He’s probably worried about me…” The dialogue you choose is open, leaving enough room for a-
“Noooo,” Peter whines, making grabby motions with his hands towards you, a child-like pout consuming his face. Bingo. “You don’t have to go, yet, do you? What if I buy you a drink, and I can tell you the story of how Hercules discovered the color of your dress.” His face attempts to transition into a more suave look, but the alcohol impairment makes it come off more like a toad passing gas. Before you can answer, he’s already raising a hand to the bartender, ordering another whiskey for you.
Jessica lets out a bashful laugh, before looking over at Sam. He was still speaking with a group of coworkers. To be honest, you couldn’t tell if it was the same group when you had left him, the group of aging, balding men all morphing into one homogenous being. Sam looks over at you, giving you a brief nod and a slight raise of his glass, an encouraging smile on his lips.
Turning back to Peter, Jessica gives him a small nod. As you sit down, you notice something in the amber drink Peter slides to you. Something that was dissolving in a cloud of bubbles.
This pathetic prick was trying to drug you.
What a perfect opportunity.
With your tongue, in-between your left molars, you dislodge the miniscule capsule that you had hidden in there earlier that night. The agency had created an antidote to prevent their agents from being drugged, however the timing was important. As it was explained to you, the pill had to be absorbed along with the drug so the antidote could nullify the adverse effects.
Since the drink would be safe to consume, you could then fall into Peter’s plan, pretend to be inebriated, and allow him to take you wherever he wanted. Then you’d knock him out, go through his phone, look for any incriminating evidence on him, or, even better, find Nox's phone number. This was the success you've been desperate for.
Months into this mission, and you were finally starting to get somewhere.
You lift the glass up, clinking your drink against Peter’s. The liquid brushes up your lip, painting the tainted alcohol over them, when you feel an arm slide around your shoulders.
“Hi, sweetie,” the familiar British voice greets, sliding up right next to you. Sam’s presence surprises you so much, you set the drink aside so as to not accidently screw up your plan. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve been missing you. Mind if I keep you two company?” In a blink, he takes your whiskey and downs the whole thing in a single gulp.
The action nearly knocks you out of your seat. Jessica isn’t supposed to know about the drug, though, so you have to carefully school your face into a regular amount of shock. He was fucking up your plan. You want to chastise him, his name on the tip of your tongue, begging to spill out, yet you’re too stunned to speak. What the hell had possessed him to take your drink?
Peter is up and out of the barstool, all his previous inebriation soaks up as he watches his employee begin to drift into the effects of the drug. He has Sam in a death grip, trying to maintain eye contact with Sam’s wavering eyes. Quiet breaths that sound like “oh no” fall out of Peter’s mouth in a rush of panic.
Sam’s grip on your seat fluctuates, tightening against it before loosening into a barely there touch, his legs wobbling slightly. He shakes his head, as if he could dislodge the drug’s effects from his system.
The coworker in fake Greek armor comes up behind Sam, playfully smacking his arm, causing Sam to nearly fall over. “Having trouble holding your liquor, Samuel?” he jokes, laughing with someone behind him.
While you attempt to steady Sam, you hear Peter berate his employees and throw an accusing hand towards the concerned bartender, throwing the innocent man under the bus. A larger commotion begins to build around the two of you, disorientating Sam further.
Amongst all the chaos, Sam's worried eyes find your own. Clear agitation morphs into a glossy daze as the drug impairs his senses. As the panic dissipates from him, it expands within you. You throw his arm around your shoulder, securing him to you, and push through the bustling crowd.
Your worry comes out in pinched eyebrows and sharp commands. “Move!” you snarl at someone blocking your path, guiding an increasingly inebriated Sam towards the elevators. A voice offers help but you dismiss it with a biting, “Fuck off.” Sam starts to giggle next to you, whatever at, you can’t tell, but with how quickly he’s slipping through those side effects, you have to get him out of here, now.
“Honey! We're hooooome!”
The entire car ride home, Sam pesters you. Poking your cheek, playing with the air controls, turning the radio volume up and down and up and down, opening the window and sticking his hands out, yelling “I'm King of the world, baby!”
You speed home as fast as you can, fighting off Sam's attempts to get you to dance along with him to the latest Lady Gaga song. Skidding into the driveway, you're flying out of your seat and racing to get him inside. The sooner you're inside, away from any nosy neighbors who'd love nothing more than some juicy gossip, the safer for the two of you. Of course, Sam makes that difficult with each wobbly step and the grand welcome he belts out across your porch.
Once inside, you drop Sam off on the couch, instructing him to stay there while you grab a glass of water. In the short time it takes you to get the drink, he's already gotten up and wandered over to the fireplace, sticking his head up the hearth while humming a song from Mary Poppins.
“Sam, get out of the fireplace.”
“Do you think chimney sweeps still exist?” he asks, a childlike wonder laced in his voice.
You pull him out of the fireplace, careful to not bump his head on the stone despite the strong desire to do so. “I don't know. Now drink up.” Sam shakes his head, his rosy lips in a deep pout. “Sam, please, I promise it'll make you feel better.”
“I feel fine,” he argues, crossing his arms across his chest. You press the glass against his lips but he blows bubbles into the water, splashing it up into his face. Sam sputters for a breath and you roll your eyes, setting the glass down as gently as your rage-trembling hands allow.
The reality of the night is finally settling in. Peter Heathrow slipped right through your fingers because Sam interfered. Because Sam couldn't let you handle something on your own. He sabotaged your mission and for what? And you can’t even ask him because he’s too high to be coherent.
Collapsing into the seat he abandoned, you drop your head into your hands, willing yourself not to cry. It's been years, and you're not ready to break the streak yet.
“Why?” you whisper.
“What's that, sweet pie?”
“Why did you take that drink?”
“He was trying to drug you,” Sam whines, slowly tumbling to the ground, stretching his arms high above his head.
“I know that.”
“I was trying to protect y-”
“I don't need your protection!” you scream. Normally, you'd have more control over your tone. That control has been slipping ever since you took this case and now it was unmanageable. At least Sam wouldn't remember this tomorrow. Your lapse in emotions was humiliating enough, you didn't need anyone else to recall it. “God, the one chance I'm given on this mission and you fucked me! You doubted me, you underestimated me, and now we're no closer to solving this fucking mission. Who the fuck knows what Peter's going to do now? He'll probably fire you and then we'll be even more fucked than we already are! Why would you take a drink you know is poisoned?!” You finally look at Sam, eager to keep yelling at him, to release the dam of frustration on him. All that disappears when you see the pained expression on his face.
Puppy dog eyes well with fat tears. His nose sniffles between quick breaths. Sam twirls the gold S ring that hours ago he had shown off excitedly, saying he was glad to have an excuse to wear it. Now, the ring absorbs his distress with each nervous twist.
“You're mean. You hate me but I was just trying to protect you,” Sam wails. He drops his head atop the coffee table, smushing his nose into the wood.
Regret stabs at your heart watching Sam’s breakdown. You’re taking advantage of his fragile state and you feel sick. It wasn’t any different to what you were doing to Peter, so why did your body twist up in these sour feelings?
“I don’t hate you, Sam,” you sigh, patting his shaking shoulder. “I just find you very frustrating to deal with.”
Especially now.
It’s quiet for a beat too long and you’re hopeful that he’s calming down when you hear his voice squeak. “Harry.”
“What?”
“My name… is Harry.”
You groan out a curse as you cover your ears. Sam goes to speak when you stop him. “No, no, don’t say it again. I can’t hear this.”
Sam sits up, bunching his brows at you. “Why can’t you hear my name? My mother named me after one of the Kings of England,” -he hiccups- “I think. It’s insulting to my culture-” His speech is interrupted when you grasp at his face, one hand covering his mouth. You’re practically sitting in his lap, avoiding his gaze, as you gather the energy to say what you need to.
“You can’t tell me things like that, Sam.” He mumbles underneath your palm, so you press your hand more forcefully against his lips. “Whatever you tell me, I have a responsibility to report back to my agency. You can’t give me information that we can use to harm you. Do you understand?” You finally look up at him, hoping to see some clarity in his foggy eyes.
Sam shakes his head back and forth. He tugs on your arm until you remove it from his mouth. “Why do you want to hurt me?”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you explain, pushing out all the thoughts you’ve had about maiming him these past months. “But if this mission doesn’t work out, my agency can and will use your name to hurt you, your agency, maybe even your family.”
A deep, unfiltered giggle erupts from Sam, who leisurely sways his head back and forth, a dorky smile growing on him. “You’d have to get past Dante. Nobody’s gotten past Dante.”
“Sam, I know you don’t want to think about it, but no dog can withstand-”
“Dante’s not a dog,” Sam interrupts. “He’s a bodyguard. He watches my family. And and and my name is Harry.” The last part is added on as an aside, like even he’s just remembering his own name.
“You… have a bodyguard… for your family?”
He shrugs, “Yeah. My spy guys gave him to me.”
This revelation is shattering your understanding of what being a spy is.
Spying is the loneliest profession. Your life is absorbed into a dangerous universe, a world where threats of violence are an everyday occurrence, where personal relationships can be exploited easily, where concepts of “morality” don’t exist. One enters into this terrifying world by themselves. Walking solo into hell, like Orpheus trying to save his long dead love, except you didn’t expect to bring anyone back, yourself included. Allowing other people around, people you care about, people who couldn’t protect themselves, was setting them up to be slaughtered.
Yet, Sam was nearly bragging about the human watchdog his job provided to him. He scoffed at the idea of anyone harming this guard, so sure his family couldn’t be hurt. Which meant he got to see his family, to talk with his parents, celebrate with them, share his day with them. Maybe he’d been serious about that “family emergency” back on that first day.
That meant his agency had the resources and extra manpower to extend protection to all their spies. Why would an agency as well staffed and protected as his want to merge with your agency?
“I think my mom wants Dante as her pet, though, which I don’t like to think about. That’s something they don’t warn you about becoming a spy, you’ll suddenly learn when your mom is lusting after random waiters and whatnot. Her pupils always dilate over blondes with glasses.”
“Sam, I need-”
“HARRY!” he insists, pounding his fists against his legs in a child-like fashion.
If only to appease his desperate pleas, you give in to him.
“Harry, I need to get you upstairs and into bed,” you coax, not wanting to hear anymore about the luxuries his agency afforded him. “The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner I will make you pancakes for breakfast, how does that sound?”
Pancakes, it turns out, are an effective bargaining chip.
Harry’s lanky body with too long of limbs struggles to stand up properly, so he leans over you, dangling his arms down your chest and dragging his feet behind yours. You’re trying to maneuver his legs up the stairs, thankful you only have to take him up one flight, when his deep mumbling words form an intelligible sentence. “What about your family? Are they safe?”
Family was tricky for you, even before you severed all ties with them when joining the agency. Communication had broken down years ago, so cutting them out of your life wasn’t a difficult adjustment. The last time you had heard from anyone in your family was in the early days of becoming a spy, when the agency was barely functioning out of a single floor in a regular office building. Before your name had been fully wiped from all legal databases, before the agency had erased all known evidence of your existence, someone had found it. That someone used that information to send a package to your estranged father, who forwarded the box to you with a note reminding you to stop telling people you lived there. Honestly, you were quite relieved he didn’t open it and see the three fingers someone had intended to ship to you.
There were questions you chose not to ask yourself. Like Where did your sister go after she graduated? or Did your mom transform your bedroom into that yoga studio she always threatened? or How did Grandmama die?
You’d resigned yourself to the fact that your family’s lives were separate from your own. You were a loose thread in the weaving of your family history, plucked and discarded, no longer entwined with them.
“They're fine. You don't have to worry about them.” God knows you didn't.
Opening Harry’s bedroom door, you’re surprised by the change. It once was a plain bedroom, muted colors with an artificial warmth like a window display. Now, a few personal items, a fluffy throw blanket, and some elegant curtains took a mimicry of an intimate room and turned into an inviting, comforting space.
On his nightstand, next to the copy of The Bell Jar he borrowed from you, is a framed picture of Harry and two women. One looks to be about his age, the other older but there was a familiarity in their faces. Similar bright smiles, identical eye shapes, it was a nice photo of the three of them, vacationing on some ski trip. The clear display of familial love makes you want to kick yourself for never coming in here before. So much for ‘practicing modesty’ and ‘allowing a sense of privacy’.
Harry stumbles up to his bed, leaning on the mattress for balance. Finding his equilibrium, Harry attempts to pull the shirt over his head. Considering how little he actually buttoned up the shirt, it should’ve been easy, however, he was attempting to pull it off while still wearing the suit jacket over it.
After watching (and reveling in) his drunken buffoonery, you step up to him, rearranging his clothes until you can help him disassemble his outfit. First, you strip off the offending jacket. Your fingers then deftly unclasp the buttons lowering down his stomach until his shirt disappears into his pants.
He’s given you permission before, to touch him wherever. You can do anything to me, those had been his exact words. But that was when he was clear-minded, and you’re not about to cross that belt line now. Harry notes your apprehension though not the cause. It’s not until you point out his pants does he go to take them off, giggling all the while. When he pulls his pants down, his boxers underneath snag on the fabric and are pulled down alongside them.
The millisecond you see too much of his bare thigh, you spin around, avoiding looking at your husband’s penis. Your red fingernails, painted specifically for this party, become very interesting, capturing your entire attention instead of the naked man standing behind you.
“It's just a wang, love.”
His teasing doesn't sway you. “I'll wait for sober Harry to tell me that.”
You wait until you hear the give of the mattress and rustling of blankets before you dare a peek. Harry snuggles deeply into his sheets with a pleased grin. After carefully placing his glasses on the nightstand, you turn to go.
“Can you stay?”
The whimper is barely audible, a whispered request. It's quiet enough you could ignore it, pretend like you didn't hear it, and go to sleep in your own bed. What makes you pause, though, is attempting to figure out why he said it. Was it a response due to the drug, loneliness heightened under the influence? Did he fall asleep so fast, slip into some dream, and whisper his fantasies aloud? Worst of all, was he expecting you to walk away? Did he expect you to leave and he was giving you an out?
Your head hangs low as you weigh your options. Time passes and you believe Harry's fallen asleep based on his even breathing. Feeling like it's safe to do so, you lay across the settee at the foot of his bed, tugging his furry throw over your body. You'll wake up early in the morning, you argue to yourself. Sneak out of your husband's bedroom before he wakes.
Sleep begins to overtake you, your body relaxing after the whirlwind of a night.
Harry shifts, tossing and turning before kicking you in the head, unconscious to his actions.
You tell yourself the only reason you don't leave is to make sure Harry doesn't suffocate throughout the night, if only so you can kick him in the back of his head once he's awake.
Harry pushes his pancakes through a puddle of syrup, dredging his breakfast in sticky maple sauce, but doesn't bring the fork up to his mouth. He sits at the dining table, heavy bags under his reddened eyes, hair starting to curl as it dries, tiredly pushing the food around his plate and eating very little.
You're hiding out in the kitchen, wiping down the counters for the third time that morning so you didn't have to talk about last night. Or this morning.
Instead of waking up early and sneaking out of his room, Harry’s phone rang with a wailing alarm at 4:36 a.m., startling the both of you into consciousness. Harry lunged for the phone and answered it, his voice gravelly with sleep despite how alert his eyes were. You watch him as he listens intently to the person on the other end. He relaxes his shoulders, runs a tired hand over his face and groans into the receiver.
For some reason, the deep sound sent vibrations down your spine, tingling beneath your belly, into the core of you. Harry's voice has always been nice to listen to, slow and deep, a relaxed cadence that lulls one into a sense of comfort. The rasp only deepens his voice, each husky word scraping enticingly against your skin. He says a few more things, offering reassurances to whoever was on the line, then mutters a kind, “Love you, too," before hanging up. When he looks up at you, you're using the blanket to hide your arm that’s tucked tightly between your thighs, pressing against your throbbing vagina. Your libido has unexpectedly ramped up since moving here and you're desperate for one of the toys you have stashed away in your room after hearing Harry's morning voice.
“Who was that?” you ask, playing innocent, ignoring the ache in your lower half.
“My sister,” he answers, watching you twitch nervously, squirming even more underneath his accusing eye. Maybe he was annoyed you had listened in on his personal phone call, but you'd argue it was his fault for asking you to stay the night. Anyway, you’re not too jazzed that he seems to have regular phone calls with his family, further reminding of the privilege he held over you. He doesn't say anything more, allowing the silence to settle between the two of you. You feel exposed, on display underneath his focused stare, but you refuse to cave underneath him, matching his eye contact.
“I'm going to hop in the shower,” he sighs, dropping his gaze from yours. Harry pushes the blankets off his body and you avert your eyes away, avoiding his still naked body. You can hear his footsteps as they pad behind you. If you turned your head, you're pretty sure you'd be eye level with his crotch, which isn't helping the needy feeling between your tightly gripped thighs.
As he showered, you ran upstairs, relieved yourself of any lingering desire you felt with a reliable toy, changed into some casual clothes, then got to work on the promised pancakes. That shower didn't seem to wash away last night from Harry as he trudged down the stairs, looking more weary than he did when he woke up. He hadn't spoken to you since coming down, only a small nod when you made up a plate of stacked pancakes for him, avoiding looking up at you, as well.
You’re going insane trying to figure out what’s bouncing around in Harry’s brain. Usually, he shares every thought that pops up in his head, asking who’s job it is to make the mazes on the back of cereal boxes or sharing his new interpretation of some song lyric he heard on the radio and hasn’t been able to get out of his head. Now, you’re uncertain how to breach this mute barricade. You figured he’d come to you when he was ready to talk, but the longer he stews in silence, the more anxious you become.
Harry’s chair squeaks across the wooden floors as he stands up, grabbing his plate that’s still sticky with syrup and uneaten pancakes.
“I can take care of that,” you offer, walking up to him with your hands out. He ignores you, walking around your body to dump the food into the trash. As he rinses the dish in the sink, you remain stuck in your spot, as if Harry’s chilly attitude actually froze you. You've trained how to hide your insecurities, how to mask your anxieties, but those lessons feel distant when your thumb begins to scrape into your finger. The last time you felt this nervous was when you were a child, mom’s antique tea pot shattered at your feet.
“I’m still waiting on a thank you.”
That sense of childhood humility continues when you spin around and see Harry standing by the sink, his arms crossed, a look that reads I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. “Huh?”
“Not once have you thanked me for saving you from Peter's attempt at drugging you and you owe me.”
Of all the things you’ve been worried Harry could say, you weren't expecting a demand of gratitude. It surprises you completely out of character. “I owe you? Are you kidding me?” Your response is undignified, unrestrained, possibly the first honest thing you've said since meeting him.
Harry’s face scrunches up in anger. “Yes, I expect to be thanked for risking my life-”
“Your life? That's dramatic.”
“-and my career to protect you-”
“I didn't need your protection!”
“-from someone who was trying to harm you.”
“I had it handled myself!”
“How?”
“I had a plan.”
“What was it?”
“It doesn’t matter because you fucked it up.”
“Because you don’t fucking tell me anything!” Harry shouts at you, the words echoing around the kitchen. Even through the clear anger, there’s a hint of concern in his eyes. “How was I supposed to know you were okay? Were you going to disappear with him without even telling me? Was I supposed to wait for you? For how long? Jesus, you’re so selfish.”
“Selfish?!” you screech. Harry was right, your actions had been self-centered and you had forgotten about him. You would have these same arguments had Harry acted exactly as you had. The only difference is you’re not sure if you’d have put your own self in danger in order to save him. If you paused, reflected on yourself, maybe you could admit that’s why his criticism impacts you so harshly. You are selfish, you can’t argue against that. “Well I'm so sorry that actually making progress on our mission is being selfish.”
“That's not what I said and being deliberately obtuse is not helping.”
You let out a mirthless bark of laughter. “Helping what?”
“Us!” Harry yells. There's a desperation to him now, in his voice, in his eyes and you feel unsettled by it. He's seeking you out, hoping you'll meet him in the middle, because he's grown tired of always reaching out for you, tugging you back to him. “You think I can't tell how miserable you've been this entire time?”
That revelation shocks you. Masking around him hasn't always been easy, Jessica’s personality is so restrained it's simple for your own to slip out. But to know you've been doing such a poor job of upkeeping your role that he's known the whole time is a blow to your ego, more so than your skills. Have your abilities become so dulled that a single act is too much to juggle?
When you don't attempt to argue back, Harry allows his body a reprieve, easing the tension he's been wearing since that morning. “If we want this mission to succeed,” he says, eyes begging for your cooperation, “we need to learn how to work together, and how to live together.” Rolling your eyes, you go to disagree with him, namely on the last part, but he stops you with a raised hand. “No. This is non-negotiable. We have to work on this, or I'm out. Me, my agency, everything, I will pull it all.”
It's an effective threat. This mission began as a collaboration, a preview to a potential merger. But if the merger falls through, you can guarantee your promotion will go down with that sinking ship. A failure like that would cause a cascade of disappointment, from not getting the promotion, to becoming a beacon of mockery amongst your colleagues, to quietly retiring from the indignity. And while you're sure Harry has no clue about what this job means to you, he is a competent enough spy to sniff out your biggest insecurity.
“Okay, truce?” you offer, extending your hand out to him. Even at the disadvantage here, you refuse to yield to him.
Relief courses through Harry, a light smile feathering against his lips as his body slouches against the counter, as if a physical weight lifts off his shoulders. “Truce.” Across the kitchen island, you shake hands, connected but separate, close but distant.
“Where do we start?” you ask. “Did you still want that thank you?”
“How about, instead of a ‘thank you', you tell me your real name?” Harry smirks at you. “Seems only fair since you know mine.”
You’re pretty certain this is the hardest thing you’ve done for a mission. Already this case has been pushing boundaries you hadn’t known you’d erected. Nobody asked what your birth name was without first trying to torture it out of you. Harry’s approach was unorthodox, but you appreciate the reduction of pain.
Harry raises his brows at you, hands still clasped with yours, waiting for you to either give in or hold back one final time.
“Y/N,” you surrender. “I’m Y/N.”
That annoyingly charming smile of his, full of bright teeth and beaming with uncontained joy, gleams at you. “Y/N suits you better,” he compliments, rubbing his thumb across the back of your hand. “Y'know this all could've been avoided had you answered me properly on that first day.”
“What are you talking about?” you question.
“When I asked you what your name was, I wasn't talking about your alias.”
The red flush of embarrassment overwhelms your face as his words settle.
Harry snorts at your reaction. “Yeah, I collected our mail that day and I saw your name on some insurance ad. But then you just said ‘Jessica', so I figured I'd roll with it.” You're only partly listening to his words. The other part is trying to decide which surface you want to smash your head into, what's going to knock you out fastest. “You’ve been underestimating me, darling,” he chastises, wagging his finger at you, smirking at your obvious astonishment. “Now, c’mon, we’ve gotta-”
“If you say some stupid bullshit like, ‘We gotta save the mission by saving our marriage’, I’ll draft the divorce papers right now.”
This time, when Harry laughs, you know it’s not because of Jessica. You made Harry laugh. And while you can’t pinpoint why that makes you feel good, you’ll allow yourself to steep in this moment of contentment.
When Harry asks what room you most feel comfortable in, you reluctantly drag him into the solarium. If you were going to be further chastised, you knew being surrounded by greenery would alleviate your poor mood. You expect a scolding, to be lectured and berated over your recent actions. Instead, Harry plops down on the garden bench, making himself comfortable, encouraging you to tend to whatever plant duties you have. This unusual interrogation tactic, some British version of a good cop, is surely meant to knock you off kilter. You don't do anything at first, certain that Harry will start grilling you about all the things you've been doing wrong, but as he maintains his silence, scrolling through something on his phone, an acoustic guitar album softly strumming through his speakers, you're forced to consider that he's actually not trying anything with you. Eventually, you grab your gardening supplies and start planting up some seeds.
As you settle into the rhythm of gardening, sunlight streams through the solarium windows, the warmth dancing across your skin. You dip your hands into the soil, drenching your fingers in the dirt, transferring it into a pot before digging out a hole in the center. The heady smell of earth fills the room, dirt sprinkled across the tabletop, seeds carefully organized in plastic bags with their Latin names marked in Sharpie. Chomper sits in their corner of the room, one of their mouths recently closed around a fresh snack. You lose yourself in the planting, your stress vanishes, the mission is forgotten, the only thing that matters is taking care of these plants. The snake plant behind you was producing more propagations you'd have to remove and pot up separately, your peace lily needed its dead leaves trimmed off, and the money tree was displaying early signs of root rot. These problems were easy compared to the life threatening work usually placed on your shoulders, and sometimes you needed a small win to feel good about yourself, especially recently.
You're so entranced in these miniscule issues, you don't notice Harry has been staring at you until you pull out some seed trays and accidently catch his eye. Among all the greenery, his eyes still sparkle at you with such intensity, you could find them hidden in a pile of emeralds. Harry's skin deepens into a warmer color under the natural lighting, contrasting the dark tattoos that dapple his skin. Strands of his hair catch the sun, highlighting his hair. You allow yourself a momentary stare, to take in how hypnotizingly gorgeous he was.
“Why are you watching me?” you ask, your brows crease. He looks pretty comfortable lounging on the iron bench, his arm props up on the back to hold his head up, an easy grin on his face.
Harry shrugs, keeping his gaze on your dirty fingers as they dimple the soil. “My mom gardens. When I was a kid, I would follow her out and help her. Actually, I probably just got in her way, but I thought I was helping.” There’s a wistful note in his voice as he delves into his nostalgia. “She grew sunflowers every year and she’d let me draw smiley faces on them after each harvest.” He smiles fondly, reminiscing on his childhood. “Did you really think I was lying about my family?” he asks, not malicious, just curious.
There's a spark of jealousy in your chest hearing him talk about his mom, knowing that he still got to see her, that he had the kind of relationship with her where he wanted to see her. “I mean, yeah,” you say, your shoulder bouncing up in a brief shrug, occasionally glancing up at him. “I thought it was an easy lie to build into Sam's backstory.”
“You thought I was lying?” Harry gasps with faux outrage. “I never lie!”
“Harry, you're a spy.”
“I only lie professionally, sweetie,” he shrugs, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.
You give him a roll of your eyes, your own mouth fighting against the smirk that threatens to quirk up. “Then what was your big family emergency?”
He gives you an accusatory brow raise, restrained anger edging around his voice. “Does your agency really need to know that?”
It seems Harry remembered a lot more of last night than you thought.
“No,” you admit. “But I'm not going to apologize for doing my job. Or pretend like you don't have the same goal.”
Harry lifts his hands in surrender, “Guilty.” Tension begins to simmer between the two of you now, as the underlying threat that's been on the fringe of your relationship makes itself known. Honesty was difficult when you were mandated to report on everything that was shared. “But I'm not going to pretend like things have been working out recently. So I'm willing to bend the rules, love, if you will.”
Knowing that your career rests on the outcome of this talk, you're also willing to bend some rules. You go to nod your approval but find Harry has extended his pinkie out to you, waiting for you to intertwine yours with his. Can’t break a pinkie promise, he tempts. With nothing to lose, you let your tiniest finger wrap around his, your pinkie disappearing underneath his much longer one.
“My sister gave birth to her first kid,” he says, trying to fight the smile that tickles at the edge of his mouth. “I knew if I didn't go see the little bugger, there was a chance I wouldn't get to see her until after this mission was over. So, I begged my agency to buy me more time. They didn't want to, at first, but they realized that she would be a bigger motivation for me to do this job than anything they could offer. I'm sorry they didn't tell you anything, though. I’m sure that was frustrating.”
“You don't have to apologize for our agencies. Sometimes, I think they do it on purpose. Y'know, delay information or forget to send backup to test how you adapt to the situation. Anyway, I'm sure it was nice to see your family once more.” Even though you try to control it, a bite of envy tinges your words.
Concern creases Harry brow. “When's the last time you saw your family?”
Your shoulders tense with insecurity. “Long before I became a spy.”
“You don't visit them?”
“I can't visit them,” you correct him. “Even if I could, they wouldn't want me to.” Pity softens Harry's eyes, which annoys you. They didn't deserve his sympathy, and it meant even less to you. “My agency doesn't have bodyguards, so it doesn't matter. And don't you dare apologize again. They aren't worth it.” That's the most you've spoken about your family in a long time and you can feel those complicated feelings bubbling and fizzing inside your chest. Your hands throw the dirt a little more violently, your words come out a bit more tightly, but you're not angry.
Silence stretches in the space between you and Harry, growing more uncomfortable the longer it remains. You close your eyes and groan, feeling responsible for the gap in conversation. “Sorry, family is just…” You’re unsure how to end your sentence, how to encase all those messy relationships in one word, but it seems Harry understands.
“If I'm not allowed to apologize on behalf of your family, then neither are you, honey.” You roll your eyes at his reassurance, refusing to take it seriously. “Okay, you keep rolling your eyes at me-.”
“What are you, my mother?”
“No,” he coughs out a laugh, a devilish smile growing on him, “but I’d like to know what's annoying you so I can decide if I should do it more.”
“God, you’re annoying, you know that?”
“I'm a younger brother, of course I'm annoying, baby.” Again, you roll your eyes, causing Harry to point at you, waving his hand with childish enthusiasm. “See?!”
“Fine,” you give in, giggling at his antics. “It’s the nicknames. I can’t stand them, I need you to stop.” He immediately pouts at that suggestion and you're backtracking before you know why. “Or, at least, pick a few and stick to them. Five would be good.”
“Only five? I thought this country had free speech,” he laments sarcastically, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Anything else you want to take from me, love?” You slowly raise a solitary finger, counting down one of his nicknames with grave severity. Harry scoffs at your dramatics. “You can't count ‘love', that's part of my culture.”
“No deal. You have four left,” you state, refusing to budge. “As for the other things about you I have issues with…”
“Well, you didn't have to word it like that,” he grumbles.
“The glasses,” you continue, ignoring his interruption. “I don't understand why you keep forgetting to wear them.”
Harry shifts on the bench, discomfort resting on his shoulders. He starts tugging on his bottom lip with his finger. “I don't like the feeling of being constantly monitored. Makes me feel like you don't trust me.”
“I don't trust you, Harry.” Harsh as it was, if Harry wanted true mask-off honesty, there it was. Why would you trust a complete stranger, let alone a stranger who was paid to spy on you?
“Clearly,” Harry states, unamused. “That's the problem here. You don't trust me so you don't tell me what your plans are and then shit like last night happens.”
“Hey, you didn't ask what my plan was,” you snap indignantly at him. “Besides, I had an antidote, I would've been safe.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” he argues back, standing up until he towers over you. “I didn't even know if you knew the drink was spiked.”
“You should've just tru-" you stop yourself mid-word with a tight-lipped groan, realizing the trap he led you in. Harry looks at you expectantly, nodding at you to keep going. Stubbornly, you shake your head. “Mmmm- nuh uh. That's not fair. I got closer to Peter in one night than you did in months.”
“Oh yeah?” Harry challenges, crossing his arms across his chest, his muscles tight. “What'd you learn? That he likes Greek mythology and he thinks all his employees are Neanderthals? That's not a secret!”
“I could've learned more if you hadn't interrupted us,” you say, exaggerating your annoyance with your own crossed arms.
“And how was I supposed to know that?” he stresses, putting emphasis on each word. His glare dares you to prove him wrong. You're upset you can't. “You still haven't told me what this great plan of yours would've been.”
“It doesn't matter beca-”
“Humor me!”
You sigh, rubbing your face with your hand. “I would've taken the antidote, pretended to be drugged, then when we were alone, I would've knocked him out and hijacked his phone. Then I could-”
“That's a work phone,” Harry interrupts. “The phone he uses to talk to Nox, he keeps in a lockbox in his car, which he didn't even bring last night,” Your face freezes in shock at his revelation. Multiple phones have been a common trope amongst criminals, especially the rich stupid ones who don't understand how phone hacking works. It made sense Peter would have a separate phone for his illegal deals, you don't know why it never occurred to you.
“I- I didn't think of that…” you admit, trailing off in embarrassment, knowing how oblivious and stupid you must look. You’d become so eager to work on the case, you had glossed over some espionage basics. Rookie mistakes like that can topple a case. Guilt chokes at your throat as you’re forced to confront your error. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“You didn't ask,” he says, throwing your words back at you. Your head spins sharply to gape at him but Harry doesn't back down. “Keep going. You knock him out, hijack the wrong phone and then what? Were you planning on leaving the party without me? Were you expecting me to go back into work on Monday without letting me know what happened? Then Peter would pull me into his office and ask me why my wife assaulted him and stole his phone and I’d be standing there like an idiot not knowing what the fuck he was talking about.”
Laid out like that, the flaws of your plan viscerally stand out. Cameras would’ve picked up your escape from Peter’s room, the GPS baked into every smart device would’ve tracked you further, and any implication of Sam and Jessica being suspicious would have blocked both of you from completing the mission. You had become so laser focused on this next step, you had overlooked the mission wholly. Faults like that were juvenile. Your plan resembled more of a child’s idea of espionage, an Ian Fleming imagining or a Hollywood mockery.
“Okay, I hear you,” you mumble softly, avoiding Harry’s gaze by staring at the ground, driving all your anger out of your body and into the bricks beneath you, wishing you could be absorbed into the concrete. Tears burn along your waterline, your face contorting into all these ugly shapes in a desperate attempt to hold them back.
Harry places a reassuring hand on your back, rubbing his thumb soothingly along your shoulder. “Can you, at least, admit that I’m not wrong? That maybe our agencies put us together because they wanted us to work together to solve this.”
Those words burn like acid in your throat, the bitter taste of admitting defeat rising up like bile. You feel sick, but you can survive an upset stomach. A permanent infraction of this magnitude on your record, though, your career could never survive that.
“What if I had asked for your help?” you begrudgingly relent, still not admitting fault. “What would you have come up with?”
The question doesn’t stump Harry like you presume it would, assuming he wasn’t as prepared or dedicated as you. “I’d say you should ask Peter to become a patron of your museum.”
“That's- that's actually… a good idea,” you work out. Since starting this mission, you've been fighting to keep Jessica separate from yourself, to the point you never considered how she could help your mission. Previous aliases were merely entry points, basic camouflage meant to disguise well enough to get the job done and get out. Jessica was a more involved role, with her own relationships and responsibilities. Using her for the mission should've been more obvious to you, just one more detail you had overlooked.
You keep having these lapses in judgement, marred by your reckless sense of superiority. Maybe, Harry had a point. If you swallow your pride and let him help you, this mission has a chance to be successful.
“Fine, okay, I give, you're actually kind of competent,” you compliment.
“Thank you?”
“But,” you continue, “asking for donations won't get us any closer to him. He'd get invitations to our events and a small discount on the entry fee. We need something else to entice him.”
Harry nods along, contemplating. “Is there some kind of… I don't know, some new wing he could have built in his name? He's donated to several children's hospitals for that exact reason.” You shake your head, pouting in concentration, trying to remember anything useful from last night. “Maybe you could host a night dedicated to Hercules. Peter loves that guy, for some reason.”
Hercules…
“We're trying to break into a criminal enterprise, right?” you ask hypothetically. “So maybe, we should show him how comfortable we are outside of the law.” You start diving into your idea, expanding off of Harry's initial plan. When he can, Harry adds details to help tweak the plan until you're both wearing cruel smiles.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I'm sorry Sam couldn't join us.” Peter, at least, has the sense to look embarrassed when mentioning Harry’s alias. While he wouldn't admit to his part in it, it's relieving to know Peter feels a little discomfort from his stunt.
“No problem,” Jessica says. “Sam wanted to come, but I told him it'd be better if he rested a little while longer.” Actually, Harry had encouraged you to meet with Peter one-on-one, assuring you that this would help sell the story you two had concocted. “Really, I should be thanking you for meeting me here.” She gestures around the museum, leading Peter through the sculpture wing. The two of you carry some cheap coffee made at the kiosk outside the building, sipping politely on the mediocre drinks. Considering Peter wanted to meet up at some ritzy brunch restaurant, with $50 mimosas, you thought your downgrade needed some condolence.
“Please, I adore Greek art. I actually have a miniature version of Miss Victory over there on my desk at home.” He points out the headless Nike statue at the end of the hall, smiling fondly at the marble. “She's always been a symbol of strength to me,” he explains. “Even headless, she's still stepping forward, still pushing forth, still gunning for that victory. That's how I want to be remembered; always pushing forward.”
His impromptu speech would sound impressive to incoming business students or at a TEDx talk, but you can smell the desperation to sound impressive behind his gilded words. Peter Heathrow, who had been handed his job down from his grandfather, who was supported with the financial backing of his parents, who never had to persevere against anything, fantasizing about his legacy in front of the person actively planning his ruin is the kind of delicious irony you love.
“I'd hate to hold you back,” Jessica starts, teasing a smile at Peter, “but I was hoping to talk to you about something you brought up last night.” She motions for Peter to follow her, taking him into the warehouse behind the museum. An excess of art is stored in the back, paintings made of abstract mediums, sculptures from different regions, all the spare pieces end up here, Jessica explains to Peter. Eventually, you both come across the painting you've been saving, a sheet draped over it for dramatic effect. “Do you remember, last night, before the accident, you were about to tell me about Hercules and the story of him discovering purple dye?”
Peter grimaces at the memory. “A little. I must admit I was pretty out of it last night.” He sheepishly brushes his hair out of his eyes, adjusts his glasses, tiny little ticks so as to not have to make eye contact with you, to not have to face what he tried to do last night. “Moreso than usual, mind you. We just have a lot going on…” he trails off, expecting his excuse to suffice. And if you weren’t a spy, it might’ve worked.
“You don’t owe me any explanations. But my husband and I are really appreciative of you going after that awful man, so we wanted- well I wanted to give you something as a thank you.”
Pulling back the cover, you reveal an enormous painting that Peter recognizes with a gasp. Peter kneels down next to the painting, mirroring Hercules’s pose as he investigates the brush details on the canvas. He keeps his hands right above the dog’s red mouth, entranced by the color like the nymph, Tyros, had, according to the myth.
“‘The Discovery of Purple by Hercules’s Dog’ by Theodoor van Thulden. We don’t have the space to display this piece so it’s been kept in our archives. However, no one is going to notice one piece missing.”
The offer hangs in the air, wriggling in front of Peter’s face like a set of keys. “You’re giving this to me… as a thank you?”
Stalling for time, Jessica takes a sip of your coffee, attempting to look more worried than you feel. “I’ll be honest, I had ulterior motives for asking you to come here, Mr. Heathrow.”
“Peter, please.”
“Peter,” Jessica smiles shyly, tapping her fingers against her cup with artificial nerves. “My museum isn’t doing too well… Financially speaking. There’s a ton of art back here that’s only collecting dust and it’s such a shame too because these pieces are stunning and the stories they tell, all these new adaptations of centuries old tales, and-”
Standing up, Peter eyes you up and down, watching your nervous spiel with growing interest. “What is it that you’re looking for, doll?”
Jessica lets out a dramatic sigh, looking equal parts ashamed and hopeful. “If you become a patron for my museum, I can… request certain pieces for you.”
His suspicious glint wars with his boyish smile, trying to wade through the murky terms of your deal without finding a pitfall. “What’s the catch?”
“The Board doesn't think donations should be bought with bribes. So this would have to be strictly off the record. No ledgers, no providence papers, just trust… between two individuals.” Peter raises his brow, shocked at your bold suggestion. He mulls it over while eyeballing the painting that could be his. As the seconds tick by, Jessica starts backtracking. “This was completely inappropriate, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done this.” She goes to pull the sheet back over the painting, covering up the gift, hoping to hide the offer amongst the cloth.
This, as planned, causes Peter to make his move. “Whoa, whoa, hold on,” he admonishes, holding a hand out to stop you. He has a dangerous smirk now, tainted with deceit. Peter believes he’s got the upper hand. “Having trouble with finances, huh?” he teases, tucking a wild strand of hair behind your ear. He’s leaning forward, edging himself closer to you until he’s merely a breath away. “And what if I had some friends who also appreciate art. Could they become patrons too?”
Jessica beams up at Peter while you contain your true enthusiasm at how successful this is going. The plan - Harry's plan - was turning out better than you expected. “You really mean that? Who- who are they?”
“I’ll make those introductions later. For now, let’s just keep this between us,” Peter says, condescension dripping from each word. “I'm not too fond of sharing.”
Little does Peter notice your bold statement necklace, the ornate gems disguising a camera that’s been recording the entire conversation.
Agent Storm: Mission check-in- contact made with Peter Heathrow, connection established, infiltration of inner circle is complete. (Sent 4:15)
Chelsea: Congratulations, Agent Storm. We look forward to any future updates. How has the case been treating you otherwise? (Sent 4:16)
Agent Storm: The mission is proceeding well, we’ll have more details by next week. (Sent 4:16)
Chelsea: That's good to know. Good work, Agent Storm. Has there been any problems with your partner? (Sent 4:16)
Agent Storm: Nothing we haven't been able to sort out ourselves. (Sent 4:22)
Chelsea: Good. I'm glad you two are getting along. I'll reach out if we don't hear from you by next month. (Sent 4:23)
Agent Storm: After the merger, will we be able to get back into contact with our families? (Sent 5:03)
Chelsea: No. (Sent 5:03)
Chelsea: I know it sucks, but you're keeping them safer by keeping your distance. (Sent 5:03)
Chelsea: Is there a message you'd like for me to send in your place? (Sent 5:05)
Agent Storm: No, I understand. I'll reach out to you when I can. Agent Storm signing out. (Sent 5:09)
Playing the Part - A Mr. and Mrs. Styles Halloween Blurb
Mr. and Mrs. Styles Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Summary: Needing to keep up appearances, you and Harry attend the neighborhood Halloween party
2.3k words
A/N: i wrote this in a few hours, it's unpolished, but i couldn't let the holiday pass without checking in on these two. thanks for being patient with the next chapter. (in my head, this takes place after the next chapter but we're just gonna ignore that for now. hell maybe this isn't even canon.) Happy Halloween or Blessed Samhain, whatever you celebrate, may your day be spooky!
C/W: nothing, just Halloween fun with some annoying neighbors
“And you’re sure that Denise isn’t going to be there? She still hasn’t forgiven me for feeding her dog non-vegan treats,” you grimace, remembering your neighbor’s sour expression when she noticed the treat bag you had been rummaging through, picking out the most delicious-looking treats for her pup. You had moved in only a couple months before, and a year later, she still held a grudge against you. Looking at your reflection in the mirror, you widen your eyes, dropping your mouth into an O shape, painting your lashes with mascara.
“I promise Denise will not be at the party,” Harry assures you, lounging on your bed, his ankles crossed one over the other, his hands folded behind his head. “She’s currently feuding with Yelena Mendoza over whose cheese dip was more popular at the back to school function last month so Denise is avoiding Yelena. And since Yelena is closer with our hostess tonight, there’s no chance Denise is going to show.”
Twisting your mascara closed, you rustle through your lipsticks, inspecting each shade, seeking out the perfect pouty pink color. “Which one do you prefer?” you ask, spinning on your chair to display the options to Harry, a sheer lip gloss with a pink tint or a lipstick with a muted pink tone.
Harry pushes up to a sitting position, throwing his legs over the side of your bed, reviewing your choices with the same respect he’d use to choose which weapon to bring on a mission. “Why don’t you go for something more bold? Like a red lip.”
Pulling out your phone, you pull up the reference photo you’ve been copying. “Because she isn’t,” you counter.
“Eh, you don’t have to copy the look exactly.”
“But what if people don’t recognize us?” you pout. Attending this party wasn’t your idea, neither were the matching costumes, but since Harry volunteered your attendance, you would be damned if you didn’t put all your effort into perfecting your outfit. Being a spy was all about putting on a role, adapting to a new character, and Halloween was kinda like practice.
“Honey, the costume is a sexy spy. I’m pretty sure your lip color isn’t going to change the costume too much,” Harry teases. Your lips scrunch into a disgruntled frown, not swayed by his argument. “Look, this is just my opinion,” Harry starts, standing up and walking over to your vanity, “but for a neighborhood Halloween party, authenticity isn’t going to be too important,” he riffles through your collection of lip products, plucking out a bullet of lipstick, “and I always liked how this one looked on you.”
You twist the tube around, reading the name “Death’s Kiss”, a deep burgundy red, moody and sultry and seductive. With a resigned sigh, you uncap the lipstick and swipe the product across your bottom lip. While checking yourself in the mirror, making sure the color was acceptable, Harry leans his head atop your shoulder, looking at you in the glass. “Now tell me that doesn’t scream sexy spy,” he challenges, a smug smirk taking over his lips.
Shrugging his head off your shoulder with a roll of your eyes, you shoo him away. “Fine, okay, can you grab our props?”
“Course, I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready to go,” he says, his smirk growing into a smile. Harry presses a kiss to the top of your head before leaving.
“Don’t mess up my hair,” you scold after him, gently patting down the few strands that were disturbed by Harry’s lips, his laugh trailing behind him.
“Hi! Happy Halloween, you two!” Nicoletta Hill greets in her tight cheetah print body suit with matching cat ears. “You both look so cute!” Your plastered smile isn’t as large as Harry’s but it’s convincing enough for your neighbor. Escorting you inside, Harry leads you through the cobwebbed home. Her entry table is stacked with red cups and a sharpie. “Please, write your character names on the cup, it’s more fun,” she instructs, her head spinning at the sound of something crashing in the kitchen. “I’ll be back, uh grab some snacks, mingle, have fun.”
You slide your arm out of Harry’s, combing your hair out of your face, your lips trilling as you look around at Nicoletta’s decor. Bats hang from the ceiling, balloons of orange and black litter the ground, and a fog machine is working overtime in her living room. “Monster Mash” is blaring on surround sound speakers.
Harry’s hand enters your vision, a red cup with the name Mrs. Smith written on the side. You take the cup from him with a quick thank you, still trying to identify who exactly is the pirate with the red eyepatch.
“Sam,” you whisper to your partner, “I thought you said Denise and Yelena were fighting.”
“I did.”
“Then what are they doing here, dressed up as Elphaba and Glinda?” you ask, dread pooling in your heels as you watch Denise lean over to Yelena, side-eyeing you the whole time as she mutters something that draws Yelena’s eyes to you as well, both of them giggling.
“Huh,” Harry notes, waving to them. They return his wave, tittering to each other but drop their hands when they see you raise yours. “I guess they worked it out.” With his own cup in hand, he takes you over to the punch bowl, candy eyes frozen into the ice.
“Can I leave yet?” you mumble, not hopeful about the answer you’ll receive.
“C’mon, it’s one night, and they’ll get suspicious if we keep avoiding them. Besides,” Harry points to a plate beside him, “they’ve got pretzel sticks dipped in white chocolate.” He picks up one of the treats and wiggles the food at you. “And look, it’s a spooky ghost.”
Your red lips quirk into a small smile, shaking your head at his antics. “Two hours?”
Harry checks his watch, just after six. “Two and a half,” Harry bargains. “The costume contest starts at eight.”
“We don’t need to stay for that, do we?” you whine quietly, holding your cup out so Harry can fill it with the cranberry concoction.
With a knowing smirk on his lips, Harry leans down to you. “And I thought you hated losing,” he returns. In the den, someone calls out for Sam, and Harry nods at them, lifting his glass in acknowledgement. As he passes by you, he presses a tender kiss to your head again. “Have fun,” he mocks as he sees a group of the wives from the neighborhood approach you.
“Jessica, it’s great to see you!” Rochelle welcomes, her green Hogwarts robe sashaying behind her, dragging along Shelby in a near matching red robe.
And as you’re absorbed into their conversations about the smutty book club they want to start in retaliation of Mrs. Bergstein’s “no sexy books” rule, you tick on a clock in your head, counting down the time until you can go back to your place.
8,991 more seconds to go.
“Can we get a shot where it looks like you’re chopping off his head? Yeah, that’s it! Work it, yeah, you’re a star!” Nicoletta cheers, directing the Singh’s as she snaps photos of their couple costume, Diya as a lumberjack and Kamal’s body is trapped inside a cylindrical tube painted to look like a tree, big sweeping branches made from wire adorn the top, with paper leaves dangling from them. Diya heaves her axe up like she’s about to decapitate her husband and Nicoletta bounces up and down and she captures the moment on her phone, her bored teenage daughter beside her grabbing a few photos with a polaroid. “You guys look precious! Love it! Ok, ok, great, ok, next, let’s do the Thompson’s.”
The sound of your alternate last name interrupts Taylor’s thorough critique of the local high school’s production of “Dracula” this year, of which you’re grateful to be pulled away from. As you approach your hostess, Harry appears next to you, smoothly sliding his hand across your back and around your waist, pulling you into him.
“Oh you two are just the cutest! Ok, so what are we thinking, do we want to do cool spy poses, do we want to do the movie poster, that could be fun!” Nicoletta offers, looking between the two of you.
“The movie poster is a classic,” you say, wanting to get this activity over with as quickly as possible.
“Wait, what about this?” Tony, Nicoletta’s husband, pipes up, showing something on his phone to his wife. Tony wore a Batman tee, uninterested in the dress up everyone else was participating in. “They’d definitely win the sexiest costume like this,” he laughs. Nicoletta lightly slaps her husband’s chest, reprimanding his naughty nature. Showing it off to the two of you, Tony’s phone displays a still from the movie, Angelina Jolie’s leg held up against Brad Pitt’s waist, his hand cupped around her thigh as they dance.
“Now, that looks fun,” Harry jokes, laughing with Tony over their shared dirty thoughts, and just like Tony, Harry was smacked in the chest by his partner, except you were a little rougher.
“Well if you’re both down,” Nicoletta begins, looking between you both, an excited grin sprouting on her, “it would be kind of hot, right?”
With a quick glance to Harry, you realize putting up a fight would only delay your return home. So you grin and nod and walk into place with Harry, careful to make sure your heels don’t stick into the lawn. Once you’re in front of Nicoletta’s fence, decorated with a tarp painted with a graveyard background, you wrap your arms around Harry’s neck the way Angelina had Brad, lifting your knee up against Harry’s leg, not trying to scandalize Nicoletta’s daughter. Harry doesn’t carry those same precautions because when his hand wraps around your back, he pulls you flush against him, raising your leg higher up his side. His eyes cast up to meet yours, a question brewing in them, checking to make sure you were okay. With an imperceptible nod, you give him your answer.
“Yes!” Nicoletta shrieks, disrupting your silent conversation. “Yes, that’s it! You’re so hot, you’re fierce, you’re killing it! Yes!”
Leaning in closer, Harry breathes quietly into your ear, his lips hidden behind your hair, “The only thing Nicoletta’s killing is her daughter with that skin-tight outfit.”
You have to cough to cover up the scoff Harry forced out of you. “Sorry,” you apologize to the photographers, molding your face back into a mockery of a seductive stare.
“Oh, you two look so good! So hot! Yeah, you want to kill each other, you’re plotting each other’s death!” Nicoletta encourages.
“Don’t get any ideas now,” Harry admonishes quietly. “There’s too many witnesses.”
This time, you can’t mask your laugh, letting it flow out of you before recovering, offering more apologies to Nicoletta.
“Ok guys, I think we’re good,” Nicoletta says after a few more shots, squealing as she scrolls through the photos on her phone. “You guys got my vote, that’s for sure. Ok, next!”
Harry is stuck in endless goodbyes to the other guests, something you were avoiding by waiting next to the door, impatient to leave.
Nicoletta’s daughter lays out the polaroid photos from the night on the entryway table, superlatives written on the bottom of each photo, rating each costume. The zombie with a prosthetic hole in his cheek won scariest, Buzz Lightyear and Woody won the best friend category, and Nicoletta had rewarded Denise and Yelena with the costume of the year.
“Do you want yours?” her daughter’s monotone voice questions, holding out the last photo.
Looking down at the photograph, then back at the daughter, you shrug, gripping the white frame of the polaroid. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, whatever,” the teen grumbles, rolling her eyes and trudging up the stairs, happy to get away from all the adults.
Reading the caption, the two of you had won the sexiest costume, which was hard to deny with your whole leg exposed to the camera, your bodies tightly wrapped up in each other. Unlike the example photo, Harry’s head is buried into your hair, whispering something to you, and you, lips pulled back, teeth bared, are smiling brightly in Harry’s arms.
For obvious reasons, you don’t have a lot of photos of yourself, and the ones you do were for business, not pleasure. Most of your recent photos were headshots for your job, emotionless and unsmiling. The last time you can remember seeing a photo of yourself smiling was when you were a child, still ignorant to the harsh realities of the world, naive to the pain. Yet, here you were, beaming brightly at a joke your husband shared, at a party hosted by your neighbor, enjoying the moment. You don’t regret becoming a spy, you don’t regret giving up a regular life, but you can’t ease the ache in your heart seeing a smile, an honest smile, captured in this tiny square photo.
“Is that our photo?” Harry asks, waltzing up to you with an anticipatory grin. “Did we win sexiest costume?”
Breathing out a laugh, you nod, displaying the photo and title to him. “I mean, I am the only one here with a leg slit that goes up to my crotch so it’s not like we had competition.”
“Bold of you to assume that you did all the work. You see that?” he quizzes you, pointing to his fingers indenting into your thigh. “That’s a perfect leg grip. No one can resist a good leg squeeze,” Harry insists while opening up the door, motioning you forward.
“Most of your face isn’t even in this photo, so I don’t think you were much of a factor,” you retaliate playfully, bracing yourself for the October chill you were about to step into, goosebumps already pimpling your skin.
“What are you gonna do with it?” Harry questions, closing the door behind him. “Cause if you’re just gonna bin it, I’ll take it.”
Pinching the photo between your thumb and forefinger, you once again take in the smile, that rare glimpse of happiness spread on your face. “No, I think I’ll keep it.”
The Season of Giving - Mr. and Mrs. Styles Christmas Blurb
Mr. and Mrs. Styles Masterlist or Main Masterlist
Summary: After living together for two months, you and your fake husband have to decide if how you'll spend the holidays
5.4k words
A/N: this takes place before Drunk Husband, Pissed Wife so they don't know each other's real names and will only be referring to each other as Sam and Jessica (and whatever nicknames Harry can come up with). happy holidays 🥰🎄🎁
C/W: reader is a grinch, excessive pet names, holiday stress, brief mentions of terrorism (honestly this is fluff for this series)
Jessica is balancing atop the step ladder, hanging garlands of winter greenery around her windows. Coming home from work a week ago, she had noticed her neighbor, Nicoletta Hill, had already dressed her home in preparation of the chilly holidays that were approaching. One home decorating for the season didn’t signal much besides a dedication to the festive spirit. But then another house had put inflatable Christmas figures out on their lawn, then another hung lights from their roof, and when three more houses lined their driveways with those cheap plastic candy canes, Jessica realized she needed to buy her own decorations before the neighborhood grew suspicious at her lack of holiday cheer. Keeping up with the Joneses, or rather the Hills, would seemingly require yards of stringed lights and Santa decals on the windows.
Outside of the Jessica persona you had been living as for the past two months, you hadn’t celebrated any holiday in years. You had been too busy, the jolly season created just as much misery as it did merriment. There was always someone willing to inflict their lonely rage on others, and the holidays only exasperated their isolation. From preventing the Rockefeller tree from blowing up, to stopping a sniper from killing a mall Santa, there was no shortage of criminals you would be asked to stop.
Except for this year because your agency insisted that your current mission was more important. The mission that hadn't made any progress. The mission where you were left to do nothing but wait for your partner to turn up results that never materialized.
With no other direction, you regulated yourself to maintaining the appearance of being a loving couple who follow normal couple standards such as holiday traditions. When you had stalked through the HomeGoods aisles, stuffing your cart with as many cheap decorations as will fit, you didn’t know that the ornaments didn’t come with hooks. You didn’t know what the point of an Elf on the Shelf was, but you bought the creepy-looking doll anyway. Now, your living room and entryway were cluttered with shopping bags, brimming with festive decorations you only half understood the purpose of.
“Do you need help, darling?” Sam’s voice interrupts your concentration, focusing on making sure the garland lays evenly over the window. Shifting your gaze over to your husband, you feel that familiar sense of dread seeing the source of your misery. There's a cocky pull to his smile, eyeing your disheveled hair and the light sheen of sweat wetting your forehead, probably enjoying your unkempt appearance. In contrast, his suit is unwrinkled, his hair fluffy and upright like a pompadour. The only defect you can find is the lack of glasses he was supposed to wear, the glasses with a camera hidden inside. Now you’d have to settle for his personal recounting of the day, rely on his memory instead of verifying the information for yourself.
Blinking once, you slip back into the Jessica alias, wiping your sweaty face with the back of your arm. “Yes, dear,” you reply, your tone thickly saccharine. “Could you tell me if this is even?”
Sam maneuvers around the shopping bags, checking over your work. “Looks good to me, honey,” he compliments, only giving the garland a cursory glance before getting distracted with the array of decorations littering the room. “Baby, did you buy out the whole store?”
Gritting your teeth, you swallow down the annoyance bubbling inside so your voice doesn't betray your true feelings. “No, I left a few boxes behind,” you answer, adjusting the garland, not trusting Sam's opinion.
You can hear him start to rummage through the bags, itemizing everything you bought. “I didn’t know you were so… festive.” Skepticism bleeds through his words, his brow raising at the Elf in the Shelf box.
This moment will determine the next month for you, whether you’ll be playing your usual role of the Grinch or if you’ll take up a new act as the cheeriest, most festive person in all of Connecticut. It’d be easier to put on the charade if you weren’t already consumed by the role you were already playing, Jessica Thompson. She was practical, resourceful, charismatic, those traits didn’t necessarily translate into festive cheer. You could work it into some part of her backstory, Christmas was her favorite holiday, it reminded Jessica of her family, she loved the giving spirit. But all those excuses tasted like coal in your mouth, unable to muster more jolliness than you felt. Plus, you didn’t believe you could realistically compete with Nicoletta’s dedication to the holiday, her closet now a collection of fur trimmed red coats and candy cane striped yoga pants. So, you decide to play it a little more honestly.
“I’m not,” you respond, stepping down from the ladder, double-checking the balance on the garland. “I’m just trying to keep up with the rest of the neighborhood.”
“So we’re not celebrating Christmas this year?”
His question distracts you from the greenery, glancing over your shoulder to stare quizzically at him. “Did you want to?” you ask trepidatiously, trying to read his body language to find the scheme, the ruse he must be playing.
Instead of answering, he rifles through your brand-new ornaments, fondly smiling at one shaped like Scooby-Doo in a Santa hat. “The HOA has invited everyone to participate in a cookie swap for the local food banks. Most people will probably make gingerbread cookies, so I was thinking about doing something else, maybe those jammy thumbprint cookies. What do you think, angel?”
These past two months you’ve learned to not trust your partner when he refused to directly answer a question. When you asked why he forgot his glasses, he pretended like he didn’t know what you were talking about. When you inquired about how his relationship with his boss was going, he’d suddenly remember a joke his coworker, Caleb, had shared that was so funny he had to relay it immediately. So when he dodges your question about the holidays, your nerves immediately prickle with concern.
“That’s fine, Sam, but were you expecting us to… celebrate?” You add in a little laugh at the end, to highlight how silly, how inane the idea is.
He shrugs, his dimples pinching into his cheeks as his smile morphs into a cheeky smirk. “It’s just going to be hard to return your present, is all.”
Your face drops in disbelief. A present? He bought something for you? And what the hell kind of present is hard to return? “You uh… you got me a- What do you-”
“It’s a little low on the left side,” he interrupts you, pointing at the garland. When you turn to inspect your off-balance hanging job, Sam takes that time to leave the living room, abandoning the conversation as he heads to the kitchen to prepare dinner, the chore he’s commandeered since first showing up.
Growling to yourself, you climb back up the ladder, beginning to understand why the holidays created an uptick in crimes.
Bursting through the door the next day, Sam calls out from the entryway, “Hey, sweetie, could you come out and help me with this?”
Little did you know that ‘this’ was an eight foot tall pine tree strapped to the top of his car.
“Sam, you know I bought a tree already, right?” you yell out from the porch, apprehensive of the colossal pine tree. “Aren’t these… I don’t know, bad for the environment or something?”
“I don’t know, isn’t that fake plastic tree you bought bad for the environment too?” he retorts, shimmying the tree off the roof. “C’mon honey, this isn’t going to decorate itself.”
Heaving a large sigh, you help carry the sticky Christmas tree into your new home, careful to not drop too many needles along your floor. Each time the tree grazes a wall, jostling the both of you on the impact, Sam chuckles at the awkward steps, the readjusting becoming something like a dance to him. You, on the other hand, match his stumbling giggles while also cataloguing each hit, reminding yourself to go back and clean any sap off the walls so they don’t retain the gummy mess, annoyed at the additional work being added on to your list. Shuffling around, the two of you somehow maneuver the tree into the living room, when Sam remembers the important detail of the tree stand he forgot back in the car, leaving you to retrieve it.
The aroma of pine is stronger than you remember, organically overwhelming the living room with its winter stench. As the sap seeps into your skin, you question why someone would start a tradition of bringing in such a messy tree into their home. Not to mention the trouble you’d go through dressing it up with your new ornaments only to remove everything at the end of the month before discarding the withering dead thing into the streets.
When he returns, the set up is full of more stumbling and clumsy adjusting, more embarrassed laughter between you two, before the tree is finally upright, the top brushing the ceiling only a few times. Stepping back, you both assess the tree.
“It’s a little to the left.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You’re just trying to get back at me for yesterday and that wasn’t even my fault.”
“No, I’m not. Come over here,” you insist, waving him closer, your attention fixed on the lopsided tree.
Sam steps up behind you, his head leaning down until it’s almost resting on your shoulder to look up at the tree from your angle. The warm vanilla from his cologne teases at your nose, mixing with the pine into a tempting aroma. His face accidentally bumps against yours and the scruff of his unshaved face scratches against your cheek. “Ok,” he concedes. “It is a little to the left.”
Allowing the proud smirk to overtake your lips, you turn your head to look at him at the same time as he looks over at you. Small blips of intimacy were bound to pop up when undercover as a married couple, it was inevitable. However, Sam seemed to conduct these moments, intricately crafting spaces where feelings were meant to slip in, waiting for you to slip up and fall into his affectionate trap. Ever since that first day where you had unintentionally played as his prey, you’ve become hyper-vigilant about any other attempts he made. Hand feeding you while making dinner, gifting you flowers for your accomplishments at your fake job, any opportunity that arose, Sam made sure to take it, even as you grew more aware of them.
Underneath all that, beneath the spy training and the instinctive distrust in others, you could at least admire the man pretending to be your husband. You assumed he must’ve had work done to look this good, but his neck was clean of any suspicious surgical seams. His jaw curves sharply, his dimples pinch his cheeks, his green eyes capture the light, like he was constructed to lure people in. Even though you had learned how to avoid his endearing gestures, that didn’t mean you couldn’t revel in his beauty. You were his wife, after all, it was okay to get swept up in the moment every now and then.
Past his pretty face, through the living room window, your gaze catches movement, a blob of a person walking up your driveway. Mrs. Bergstein, your surly old neighbor, the herald of the local gossip, was marching up to your house, a book tucked underneath her arm. She had been the most dubious of your relationship, loudly vocal about her uncertainty as to why your husband hadn’t moved in with you. So you signed up for her neighborhood book club, to convert her ire away from your fraudulent relationship.
As she approaches your house, you lean back into Sam, speaking quickly. “Bergstein is here.”
“How do you wanna play it?” Sam asks, aware of the important sway your neighbor held over everyone’s reputations.
Sneaking a last glance over at her, you quickly decide, “Convincing but not scandalous.”
Adapting to the role, Sam’s arms curl around your midsection, tugging you into him before he presses his lips into your forehead. You close your eyes and sigh, overlapping your arms over his, making Jessica appear blissful, while being cradled in her husband’s arms, in front of their new Christmas tree. It was Christmas card-worthy, if you said so yourself. And now you were wondering if you needed to send out Christmas cards, too.
Maybe you mistimed it, maybe Mrs. Bergstein had slowed her steps as she approached, but you’re locked into Sam’s embrace for longer than you expected, trapped inside his Christmas sweater hold while you wait for the impending interruption. It’s not horrible, lingering in his arms, but you feel claustrophobic. His body blocks your vision, your arms are restricted, the last time you felt this restrained was when someone was attacking you and your body wants to respond instinctively. Taking in a deep breath, you try to ease your body of the tension that’s mounting, relax your muscles of the stress they carry.
Mistaking your twitches for something else, Sam mumbles into your hair, “It's okay, I won't bite.”
As embarrassed as you are that he noticed, that you couldn’t contain your anxieties well enough, you don’t bother to correct him. Your pride hackles at the idea of presenting yourself as weak, but you know indulging in his narcissism is less vulnerable than admitting the truth.
The porch creaks under Mrs. Bergstein's feet, signaling her arrival. Sam ducks down and kisses you. There's been a few more kisses shared between you since that first time before Sam's first day of work. Once, when Sam had taken you out for dinner and his coworker sat nearby, celebrating his fifth anniversary with his wife and suddenly your date had doubled in size. Another time was when he'd surprised you at an artist's gallery debut you hosted at the museum, having to play it up for the Board member you were midconversation with. You could say you've grown accustomed to what it was like to kiss Sam. His lips were soft, they prodded gently, never invaded, never pushed too far. It wasn't bad by any means, but you wouldn't call it exciting.
Then his tongue dips out, swiping against your lips, nudging against the gap between them. A surprised squeak erupts from your chest, almost pulling away from him with alarm, but his arms keep you sturdy. His tongue doesn’t take advantage of your surprise, just tastes your strawberry chapstick before retreating back.
Fast raps on the front door seem to startle the both of you, acting like you were surprised, turning to look at the old lady who smiles aggressively through the window, waving smugly. With a sheepish smile, you extract yourself from Sam’s grasp, whispering a quiet “Good job,” as you pass by him.
Mrs. Bergstein raises her brows enticingly when your door opens, an intrigued smirk plastered on her face. “Evening, Jessica. I see you and your husband are decorating for the season.”
“Hello, Mrs. Bergstein, yes, Sam just brought the tree home so we wanted to get everything set up.” You sneak a glance from your spot, through the arched window into the living room, where Sam busies himself with a string of lights. But you recognize he isn’t taking his time with untangling the wire because it’s complicated, he’s trying to listen in on your conversation.
“Oh, how nice. Well I won’t keep you, but I wanted to drop off our book for the month,” she explains as if this visit wasn’t planned. “We meet at my home every third Saturday for discussions. Feel free to bring a treat.”
“Thank you, I look forward to it,” you fib, flipping the Agatha Christie novel over to read the back, pretending like you haven’t already read all the Hercule Poirot books.
She wishes you a Merry Christmas as she departs, and you repeat the phrase, knowing that a simple call of “Happy Holidays” would send that woman into an unhinged festive rage. Once the door is closed, you allow one moment, just a beat where you drop all the pretenses, all the masks, to revel in how much you despised the forced cheeriness of the season, how grating it was to pretend to be jolly.
Here you were, assembling a Christmas tree instead of working on your mission. You accepted a book you’ve already read to convince a stranger of the validity of your relationship with someone you didn’t know and that was the most progress you’ve been able to make. This pointless placating of people you wouldn’t ever see again felt like a waste of time.
“Those lights are a nightmare!” Sam complains, coming up beside you. “Tell you what, if you untangle that ball of torture, I’ll clean the sap off the walls,” he offers, pointing at the orange smudge on the wainscoting.
Inhaling through your nose, Jessica activates, concealing concerns behind a grateful smile for her husband’s attention to detail. “Sounds like a good plan, dear.”
“Okay, everyone say ‘Red nose reindeer!’”
The family smiles at the camera, chanting the phrase back, and one of the kids throws up bunny ears behind their sibling’s head at the last minute.
“Fantastic! Beautiful everyone,” Sam cheers. He presses a few buttons on his camera to display the photo to the worried mother, assuring her he would crop out the child’s fingers from their sister’s head before sending them the photo.
Shouts and cries from other kids reverberate throughout the event space as they race around the tables, jacked up on sugar cookies and icing. When Sam had volunteered to bake cookies for the event, you didn’t know that included volunteering your time as part of the staff. Nicoletta Hill in a snowman onesie had greeted you with a clipboard in hand, ready to assign roles to everyone. Sam jumped at being the photographer, and you had resigned yourself to man the snack bar. It was the easiest job, offered the most down time, and best of all, required little interactions with the hyperactive children. They wouldn’t even ask you for a treat, just run up, grab any cookie that was within reach, and run away before they could be caught.
Working the snack tables also gives you access to all your other neighbors, able to listen in as they gossip by the eggnog bowl. That’s how you overhear that Mrs. Bergstein has spread the news about her almost walking in on you and Sam getting frisky in your living room. The exaggeration evolves as more drinks are shared, the neighbors unaware that you overhear every theory. From festive fetishes to allegations of perversion, everyone has thoughts on you and your husband. Unfortunate as the rumors sounded, it was better to be a couple of Christmas perverts than to have them questioning your relationship’s credibility.
Another family bounds up to Sam’s photo area, a plastic sheet with Santa and his reindeer taped up against the wall, empty presents decorated around the floor. Sam’s bright attitude infects each family that steps up to his booth, clapping his hands to excite the babies, complimenting the kids’ snowflake art, hyping up the whole family before dipping behind the camera to capture the happy moment. You watch as Sam creates memories for the different families, all the excess effort he was putting in for these strangers, confused as to why. It was one thing to volunteer your time at a cookie bake sale instead of plotting how to get closer to your target, it was another to have a good time while doing it.
At the end of the event, you are antsy to get back home but Sam lingers behind, cleaning icing off the plastic table tops and throwing out the trash littered all over. Not wanting to look like a slacker, you help Nicoletta return the tupperware to their rightful owners, along with a gift bag of leftover cookies as payment for their time.
An hour after the event ended, you and Sam are walking hand in hand back to the car, finally ready to go home.
“Did you have fun?” Sam asks as he fastens his seatbelt.
“Sure,” you answer, the word bitter in your throat. “How about you?”
“Yeah, yeah, I did,” he replies with a warm grin.
“Really?” The questions slips out, your voice betraying your true feelings.
Snorting at your outburst, Sam spares a look over at you before focusing back on navigating out of the winding parking lot. “You hated it that much, huh?”
“No, no,” you lie quickly, “it was fine… loud, but fine.” His eyebrow raises, but Sam doesn’t push further, respecting your unspoken boundaries. “I do-” you pause, wondering how exactly to word your query. Dropping the Jessica persona momentarily, you declare, “I have a question.”
“Okay?”
“It’s work related,” you infer, stressing your words so Sam could understand your meaning.
“Okay…?”
“Back there, you were… I don’t even know what to call it… involved, no… invested? I mean, this wasn’t required, we didn’t need to do this. So… why did you seem to care so much? It was just a random Christmas event,” you justify, hoping it would soften your callous question.
“Everyone should get the chance to have a nice holiday photo.”
Holding back an eye roll, you press him, believing he misunderstood your question. “Sure, but… that red head with the braids, you talked about Legos with her for 2 whole minutes. Why did you do that?”
“Because she wanted to talk about Legos?” he says like it's the obvious answer.
Annoyance flares in your breath, nearly igniting it with your fury. “But we're never going to see them ever again,” you explain, “so why put in all that effort?”
Sam doesn’t answer right away and the silence consumes the air in the car. On the radio, Nat King Cole softly wishes you a Merry Christmas tonight, suffocating the car even more. Shame creeps in the longer he keeps quiet, and you’re about to revoke your question when Sam speaks up. “Penny, the little redhead girl, wanted to talk about Legos because she has a YouTube channel where she makes little videos with her different figures. Jason, the one in the Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas? He wants an atlas so he can plan the ultimate treasure hunt. Their lives are a reminder to me of why I have this job. I do what I do to protect them, to protect everyone from the guys we go after. And if I can give them a good Christmas memory, then I just see that as a bonus.”
At first, you don't buy the cheesy sentiment, it feels too morally pure to be real, especially in your line of work. Nobody at your agency was so naive as to believe in fighting for a better world, it wasn't that simple. That childlike perspective irritates you. How could he be so stupidly idealistic? Has he not seen the torture and abuse you have? He was supposed to be a lower level than you, was he so green he hadn't seen the cruelties the world had to offer?
Then you see the bracelet on his wrist, made of red and white pipe cleaners, multi-colored beads dotted around. It's made with the messy clumsiness of a child's hand. Someone had taken the time to make him that little piece of jewelry and gift it to him. A random act of kindness for a person they didn't know. Wasn't that what the whole event was about, giving back to strangers?
Was it so delusional to think that Sam actually believed in all that do-gooder nonsense?
“I never thought of it like that,” you confess, dipping back into the security of the Jessica role.
The car settles back into silence as Sam drives along the suburban roads, careful of the slushy puddles that gather in every road crack. Nat King Cole transitions into Michael Bublé, decorative lights start to turn on as the sun disappears, little reminders everywhere of the upcoming holiday.
“Love, I know we're still a week away from actual Christmas,” Sam starts, his voice teasing and light, “but your present came in early and I'm kind of worried about keeping it in its box.”
Raising a skeptical brow at him, you repeat, “You're worried about keeping it in its box?”
“Yeah,” he nods, “so I was hoping you wouldn't mind if I gave it to you early, just to be safe.”
You shake your head, confusion rattling around your brain. “Just to be safe of what?”
“Well, not to brag, honey, but I got a pretty good present,” he boasts, “and it was a little expensive so it'd be a shame if it were to die before you get it.”
“Sam, what do you get me?”
“It's a present, darling,” Sam smirks at you. “It's supposed to be a surprise.”
Your surprise was a philodendron, a pink princess philodendron. Not a bud, not a clipping of new growth, but an already grown, two foot tall plant, pink marbling the heart shaped leaves. Cuttings of this species could cost as much as twenty dollars, so having a fully developed plant, one that was lush and vibrant even after enduring the long trek in the mail, would've cost Sam several hundred at least.
It was one thing for him to take note of your new hobby, to notice the solarium blooming into your own personal greenhouse as you added more houseplants to your collection. It was another to casually spend that much for a rare species for someone he’s only known for a few months.
An instinctive distrust makes you question why he would do this. Was this meant to soften you to him, was it a bribe for your cooperation? Did he think this would make up for the lack of progress he’s made on the case? Was the price point meant to flatter you to him?
Or did the annoyingly good-hearted, idealistic spy actually buy into the season of giving?
Now, the fifty dollar Best Buy gift card you had wrapped for him feels too cheap, too impersonal to give after the thoughtful gift you received. Even for something you thought of as small and insignificant as this, you couldn't let him best you, couldn't let him win.
And with only a week left until the fateful holiday, there was only one way you could compete with him.
One present sits under the tree on Christmas morning, pristinely wrapped, a sizeable bow placed perfectly in the middle. You had snuck down the stairs in the middle of the night, careful with the heavy gift as you tiptoed your way to the first floor, holding your breath as you passed your husband's room. Precisely positioned underneath the tree, there's a burgeoning anxiety building in your chest. It's impossible to recall the last time you had bought a present that wasn't guaranteed to be the best, backed up with hours of research and meticulous detective-work. This last minute gift came about after a frantic thirty minute Google search and the uncertainty of whether Sam would like it or not burned like acid. After silently climbing back up to your room, sleep evades you, your pounding heart unable to settle down.
Christmas morning starts as unceremoniously as any other day, the sun illuminating your room like usual. The twist in your belly is the first oddity of the day, the first sign of a shift in your schedule.
You head downstairs, but pause by Sam's room, the low rumbling of his voice from behind the door catching your attention. Speaking in a low, almost whisper, his words are hard to understand. Then he laughs, a quiet, intimate laugh, breathy and light, something you’ve never heard before.
Who was he talking to? Your first thought was his agency, an early morning check-in, but that laugh changed everything. Who was making him laugh?
Lingering for too long on the stairwell, you hear the pause in his voice, the creak of his bed as he stands up. Before he can catch you snooping, you disappear down the stairs as quickly and quietly as you can. His door groans open then closes again, his voice muffled as he continues the call.
A few minutes later, Sam ambles down the stairs, where he spots you in the living room, a mug of coffee warming your hands. “Happy Christmas, my love,” he greets with a wide grin, unsuspecting of what you overheard.
“Merry Christmas, Sam,” you respond, a false warmth coating your words. Sam plops down in the spot next to you, his arm slinging around the back of the couch. He’s not quite touching you but the weight of his arm behind you, the heat from his skin emitting through your shirt, is enough to irritate your already rattled nerves. Shooting up off the couch, you rush out, “Do you wanna open your present?” Without waiting for an answer, you set your mug down on the coffee table and go to retrieve the giant, wrapped box from its spot.
“You got me something?” he asks, youthful excitement making his body shimmy in anticipation.
With a heavy inhale, you heave the present off the ground, carrying the weighty gift over to the couch. As safely as you can, you sit back down on the couch, placing the present next to Sam, letting it occupy your old spot and offering you the separation you needed. “Of course I did.”
He rips into the reindeer paper, tossing the scraps aside. Each tear raises your anxieties as he gets closer to exposing the brand name. This felt more nerve-wracking than trying to break into a safe under a time limit, you’d rather face armed bank security than your husband’s disappointment.
“Oh, wow!” he exclaims, his eyebrows shooting up in recognition. Sam inspects the box curiously, spinning it around to read the information on the side. He doesn’t offer more of a reaction, silently observing your gift, and the quiet reflection punctures through your self-confidence. Unable to watch him scrutinize the present any longer, your eyes focus on a scrap of crumbled wrapping paper that had fallen to the ground.
“It’s a um… a Le Creuset 7 quart dutch oven,” you overexplain, as if he wasn’t staring at the name on the box. “And it’s in the color mauve pink since you like pink but if you don’t like the color, I can have it exchanged for a different shade. Or I could exchange it for something else if you don’t like it. I have a gift card upstairs-”
“Hey,” Sam interrupts, placing his hand on your knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth across your plaid pajama pants. “I love it.” The reassurance doesn’t relieve your worries so he keeps going. “When I used to work at this bakery in my hometown, my boss, Bev, had one of these and she loved it. She swore that if the store ever caught on fire, she’d make sure to save her dutch oven before she worried about any of us.” Sam looks back over to the large box, patting it affectionately, his eyes brimming with subdued nostalgia. “This feels like a gift from home, so thank you.”
The genuine reveal stuns you, unaware your last minute shopping could evoke such emotion. “Y-you’re welcome.”
“And if I get started now, I could probably have a fresh loaf ready for dinner.” Sam stands up, presses a kiss to the top of your head, and carries his present into the kitchen, an excited bounce in his step. “Would you mind helping me with peeling the potatoes?” he throws over his shoulder, expecting you to follow him.
A huff of breath forces itself out of your open mouth, relief flooding in and washing away your unfounded concerns. You were safe, he liked the gift, you weren’t a disappointing wife, you hadn’t failed the mission. As tiny as this victory may have seemed to you before, the result felt doubly rewarding. Chasing after him, you call out, “Only if you agree to let me season everything.”
“I do not underseason my food!” he yells back at you, balking at the accusation.
“Just using salt and pepper doesn’t count as seasoning."
Chelsea: Agent Storm, how do you explain a $500 emergency charge on the Le Creuset website? 4:27 pm
Agent Storm: It was critical to the mission. 4:48 pm
Chelsea: We will review this after the case is over, Agent Storm. 4:51 pm
