Title: Tango Towards Destruction
Summary: Black ops agencies, espionage groups, assassinations and romance-that-really-isn't-romantic-in-every-sense-of-the-word all make for one interesting badfic. Or will.
They were a stunning pair, easily blending in on the ballroom floor with all the other equally dazzling dancers. The man was tall and handsome, with his artfully messy hair falling over his rectangular spectacles. The woman in his arms was shorter, the top of her head just reaching the tip of his nose. She had a slender figure, almost petite but not quite, and as she waltzed across the polished floor in the black strapped shoes, she was the image of grace.
Until of course, another dancing couple bumped into her. She tripped forward, eyes widening with surprise as she became unbalanced on her stiletto heels. Her partner immediately caught her, nodding politely to the apologetic couple – a soft mannered man and a gentle-looking woman – as he chided her gently.
His lady merely scowled beneath her bangs in a way that was anything but ladylike and twisted the ring around her finger to calm herself down. Her partner was less sympathetic, bringing his arm up with hers and twirling her around.
A small sound of protest was heard when the world stopped spinning, but she kept her steps in time with his to the fluid beat.
She leaned up slightly so that her darkened lips brushed against his ears. "Tachibana is heading towards the buffet table," she murmured in a low voice.
The gentleman showed no outward reaction to her words, instead he switched their position around swiftly so that he could see for himself what his partner had. Upon sight, he spoke softly, too quietly to be heard by anyone but the woman in his arms. "Target confirmed."
There was no answer from the woman, and he merely tightened the hand around her waist, pulling her body close to his own as the tempo of the song died into silence. Suddenly the rasping keen of the bandoneons reverberated throughout the large room, seducing the dancers with their hypnotic lull.
As the violins slithered into the rhythm the dancers dispersed, sliding effortlessly to the line of dance. The man easily glided through with his woman, keeping their embrace open as she moved her feet in time with the fluctuating rhythm.
He led and she followed unquestioningly, moves unpredictable and unrestrained yet flowing smoothly with the erratic melody. As the song hit a high pitch, he spun her out in a sweeping twirl. She moved obediently, her hand sliding into his effortlessly as he constricted her spin.
His light blue eyes watched as the thin layers of silk rippled down her back, all too aware of the blinding glint as the light danced off her large diamond ring. He released her hand and simultaneously they both whirled around, fingers brushing again in a split second and their gaze connecting in a fleeting glance.
After the brief pause he pulled her back. She threw him a smirk as her body collided with his. Long ebony curls tumbled over her shoulder when she tossed her head back, winding a slender hand around his neck. Without missing a beat he was navigating them around the line of dance, their stationary moment anything but disruptive to the musicality of the other dances.
"I could really get used to this," she murmured, freeing her hand from his tight grip. She ran her fingers up his arm and to his shoulders, effectively changing the mood of their dance.
From behind the glasses, an unreadable mask settled on the male's face. She scoffed at his lack of response, but kept her hands where they were, fingers curling around the black strands at the base of his neck.
She almost smiled when she felt his hand sliding down the curve of her back. It stayed there and didn't go any lower. She didn't mind that, much. Such things could be reserved for later in a private room.
"Mission accomplished?" she asked impishly as shrieks echoed throughout the ballroom and the sounds of the sextet was abruptly halted.
The man twisted them around into a slowing stop to survey the panic, hand falling from her waist. "Mission accomplished," he answered quietly, watching as a woman ran to the fallen body of the dying man.
Ryoma stared blankly at the file in his hand. Those around him were holding similar documents, rifling through the contents carefully.
He threw it carelessly onto the table and slumped forward, resting his head on folded arms. It was always the same, every single covert mission they received was to either eliminate a threat, or retrieve something while getting rid of all the obstacles. Right now there were far more important things to consider, like sleep. He hadn't gotten much for the past few weeks, and blamed that entirely on the solitary missions his director sent him on.
"Echizen," a commanding voice sliced through his drowsy conscious. The voice was familiar, one that he would happily answer to if in the right frame of mind. He grunted in reply, barely responsive.
A loud bang jolted him awake. A thick document was dropped onto the desk right in front of him. Ryoma grumpily rubbed the sleep from his tired eye, a matching frown on his lips.
The expression on Tezuka's face was as cold and impenetrable as ever, but Ryoma wasn't worried. He could see as clear as day the concern reflected behind Tezuka's glasses.
He merely blinked, reaching for the document again. He usually never read his assignments during the meetings because the words usually never processed through his mind properly, but if Tezuka wanted him to, he would try to read it once over even with the hazy veil of sleep currently draped over his eyes.
Hopefully he'd be able to register the key points of the assignment and be convincing enough that Tezuka wouldn't reassign him. Tezuka had a habit of doing that. Anyone not up to his standard usually found themselves behind a desk sorting through paperwork. Ryoma absolutely hated paperwork.
Laughter distracted him just as he managed to skim over the title. "Why this sounds like fun," a deceptively soft voice commented.
He blinked awake, staring into the dark blue eyes of the tensai of the team.
If Fuji thought something was fun, then…
"Echizen, are you up for it?" The director regarded him carefully when he perked up from his seat.
Ryoma stared back, eyes narrowed slightly at the question. Tezuka knew very well that he was capable of any assignment thrown his way. Having to ask that in the first place was like an insult. If it had been anyone else, they'd be staring into the barrel of his gun. On the other hand, this was Tezuka, and he was all too aware of the unspoken question within the hazel eyes.
Unconsciously his arm moved to his eye, lightly tracing over the white bandage.
"Che."
Profanities tumbled from painted lips as the owner struggled with the zipper of the silk dress.
"You should be careful," a deep voice admonishes from behind. There is a yelp, and then a loud thud, followed by a soft exasperated sigh.
"That dress was expensive," Tezuka commented, stepping over the fallen form. He pulled off his glasses and set it carefully atop the bedside drawer. He proceeded to take out the specialized colored contacts. "I don't want to have to pay for it as well."
His reply was a disdainful sneer, though it was ineffective being covered with a long curtain of black ringlets. "I never asked to wear this thing!"
"But you are wearing it." Tezuka glanced down at the prone form as he loosened his tie. "Don't damage it Echizen."
Ryoma scoffed while yanking down the zipper on the side of the dress. "Easier said than done," he snapped while jerking the wig off his head, followed by the hairnet. Ryoma ran a careless hand through his real hair, messing up the flattened strands as he kicked off the heels and rolled onto his back, all the while struggling rather pathetically trying to slide out of the dress.
"Perhaps you might have more success if you stood up," his aloof partner proposed mildly as he unbuttoned his shirt.
Ryoma stopped thrashing about to stare up at Tezuka. From upside down the disapproving frown on Tezuka's lips looked quite humorous. A slow smirk curved at the corner of his lips. "Want to help me up?"
Tezuka's deadpan stare was louder than any verbal response could be and easily wiped the pleased expression off Ryoma's face. "I need to wash my hair." Tezuka headed towards the bathroom; the black dye was starting to make his scalp itch.
Just as he was about to close the door, Tezuka threw an offhand remark over his shoulder, "And wash that makeup off. You look ridiculous."
Ryoma was left scowling on the floor, sprawled out ungracefully with the make-up smudged, the blasted bra riding up his flat chest, and the dress wrinkled and bunching up around his thighs to reveal the skintight pantyhose. His predicament was less than ideal.
At least, Ryoma thought as he rolled back onto his stomach, Tezuka didn't lock the door.
That was more than invitation enough.
So there was crossdressing. The reason I wrote the first scene the way I did was because this is how everyone around them would have seen them.