Author's Note: Spy!Au, based on a gifset by more-creative-than-me tumblr user elnagilbert (post/52194856913), because I'm not creative and have to steal other peoples' ideas like the bad person I am.
It starts in Vancouver. Her hair is red, his is buzzed into a high-and-tight; her dress is black and his suit is grey. He's supposed to be working out of the Chinese department, but he speaks Russian and French fluently enough to get loaned out to a joint operation from the Russian and eastern European desks.
"Fabray, meet your bodyguard." It's all the introduction they get. He holds a hand out to her, but she brushes past him with little more than a curt nod.
"Fake bodyguard," she says. "And I need a bigger guy, you don't look intimidating enough."
"Nice to meet you, too, Agent Fabray," he says. "And I'll do my job just fine, assuming you can do yours."
"Your job is to stand there like a dumb lump of Russian muscle so I can have a place at the table. You look like a featherweight boxer."
"He'll be fine," Davis says, slapping a file into her hands. "He's plenty capable."
"If I get thrown out of this meeting because of him—"
"You won't," Mike interrupts. "Let's just go over the briefing and get this done. You can insult my stature later."
"Fine." She offers little more than a cool stare, eyes sliding up and down his body once, before settling at the table and motioning for Davis to start talking.
Vancouver goes well. She offers a simple "Well done," which he returns in kind, and they share a brief handshake before he leaves for DC and she's whisked off to Russia.
He's brought back in three months later to rekindle his place as a bodyguard for another meeting, this time in Portland. Her hair is still red, but the dress has given way to a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans that fit too well to be legal. She smirks at his wandering eyes as he follows her into the back of a van. "Pick you jaw up, featherweight. And change, this isn't a business meeting. We're going hiking."
"Hiking," he echoes.
"Yep." She throws a set of clothes at him. "Listen while you change. The in we got last time is still good, but that was a small potatoes. I've been working my way up, but I think someone snitched on me, because suddenly I'm getting invites for croquet and day hikes with people I'm too new to be talking to. The contact who set up the meeting last time is going on this hike, so I need your familiar face."
"And am I still your bodyguard?" He's down to his underwear, unashamed and smirking as her own eyes start to wander when he tugs the jeans on. He was always active when he was younger—everything from football to dancing—but his shoulders had broadened, his arms hardening, in his time at the Naval Academy and afterwards. She could call him featherweight all she wanted, but he was more than solid enough.
"As far as my contact knows, yes. As far as the rest of said hiking party outside of the big bad boss man knows, you're my date. Behave accordingly."
"I can keep it in my pants," he says with a wink. "Can you?"
"I think I'll manage." She hands him a pair of boots and a folder. "Cover story. And mess up your hair, you look too neat."
"This isn't my first rodeo," he says. "Be nice to your boyfriend."
"Behave, or I'll shoot you."
The operation continues on for another six months before the arrests are made. He plays her bodyguard four time and her boyfriend twice. They go out for drinks after the arrests, at a dingy little sports bar near his apartment.
"To taking a vacation," he says, clinking his beer against hers.
"To sleeping," she mutters. He chuckles, matching her long sips as she drains her beer.
"No big plans?"
"Just to sleep, at this point," she says. "I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I stopped planning big celebrations after wrapping projects when I was in my twenties. Now all I want is to just rest." She motions for another beer. "And what about you, Agent Chang?"
"Also sleeping," he says. "Maybe going back to Ohio to see my family, I haven't talked to them in years. They think I work in finance."
"Finance?" The amusement is obvious in her eyes. "Why the hell did you pick finance?"
"I didn't," he says. "Majored in economics, minor in finance. People with higher pay grades seemed to think the IMF was a solid cover."
"Impressive." She offers him another toast. "I got stuck with art history."
"Sounds riveting." He drains his second beer. "I'd forgotten how shitty this bar is. My apartment is a few blocks away."
"Michael Chang," she says with a slow smile. "Are you trying to seduce me?"
"Hardly, Lucy Fabray." He stands from his barstool, dropping some bills on the bar and holding out her coat. "I just want to go home with a pretty girl for a night, and not lie about who I am."
"Well, in that case." She throws a wink his way before sliding smoothly into her coat. "Lead the way."
He speaks six languages and she speaks eight; he prefers muay thai and she has a particular fondness for the brutal efficiency of krav maga. At work she wears suits but when she leaves the first thing she does is trade them for running shorts and hoodies, and she never changes out of them or wears shoes when she can avoid it; he wears suits at work, too, but is much more comfortable in them, and likes to wear jeans around the house. She left her home in Georgia when she was seventeen and hasn't looked back since and they haven't come looking for her, but her southern drawl still peeks out when her guard is down; he hasn't spoken to his family since he was 27 and his parents stopped calling when he elected for going government instead of medical after his tour in the Navy, and misses them less than he thought he would.
He wonders aloud, once, if it makes him a bad person. She's in her kitchen, chopping vegetables for some dish she learned to cook once when she was on an op in Italy, and she rolls her eyes and throws a slice of red pepper at his head.
"Don't be ridiculous," she says in Portuguese. She's been teaching him the language, just as he's been walking her through muay thai, and he does his best to ignore the swooping in his stomach whenever the language rolls smoothly off of her tongue. "They made their choice, and they have to live with it. You're too valuable to be wasted toiling away in some urban hospital."
"Why, Miss Lucy," he drawls out in English, sliding around the kitchen island and pressing up against her back. "I do believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
She moves to elbow him in the ribs with the hand not holding the knife, but he dodges it swiftly and presses a kiss to her ear. When she's relaxed and they're alone, it never fails to make her shiver, and she sets the knife down and allows him to pull her back against him, her head falling back to rest on his shoulder.
The next morning, the half-chopped vegetables are still sitting on the counter, untouched. She's gone before he wakes—she goes to church every few Sundays, with one of the other women in her department, to maintain a presence in her neighborhood as the pretty young art historian in the corner apartment—but leaves a note, written half in German and half in Portuguese, reminding him of their sparring rematch that afternoon and that she's going to kick his ass.
They've both been on desk work for almost a year—him because he hasn't wanted to go back out in the field, her because she's been handling the aftermath of her last operation and to let her face fade from the memories of those she'd interacted with— before she sets off on another long-term assignment. He's angry when he finds out, because he's liked staying in one place—he's liked staying with her in once place—and has settled into a comfortable routine. Field work is nothing of what he wished it would be, more endless hours in surveillance vans and occasionally pretending to be Lucy's boyfriend, and he likes the security, the safety, of settling into an analyst's position.
She refuses to admit that she, too, likes it, unless it's muttered reluctantly into the simple quiet of night when she thinks he's asleep, murmured in one of the languages he's still learning.
By the night before she leaves, his sheets smell like her shampoo most days, she knows his favorite Chinese takeout meal, and he has a one-bout lead in their ongoing sparring competition. She meets him for one last drink before her flight, in a new shitty bar far away from either of their homes, and kisses him, hot and indecent, one last time.
"It's been fun, Michael Chang," she says, one hand still wrapped loosely in his tie.
"That it has, Lucy Fabray." His fingers squeeze at her hips. "Be safe."
"If I need a featherweight bodyguard, I'll be sure to have them send you an invitation." She licks her way into his mouth once more, as if her kiss can hide the subtle edge of apprehension in her eyes. She's going to be starting in France, and it's going to be dangerous, and he worries for her.
"Be safe," he murmurs once more. "See you on the flip side, Lucy."
"Quinn," she says quietly. "It's my middle name. It's what my family called me."
"Quinn," he says, and a slow smile crosses his face. "Find me when you get back."
"Michael Chang, are you trying to seduce me?"
"Always," he says, simple and honest, and she shivers and presses against him for one brief moment before pulling away and striding off into the night alone.
He befriends one of the surveillance tech guys, bribing his way into information about Quinn with coffee and combat training tips. It only takes a few weeks before he starts getting a folder dropped at his desk every few days with updates on Quinn's work.
She's been gone four months when he drops his bagel, eyes widening and a curse slipping out as he read the file. He jerks to his feet and sets off at a half-run to Quinn's boss's office.
"She's compromised," he says by way of greeting, throwing the file down on the man's desk. "You have to pull her out."
"I beg your pardon—"
"This guy," Mike says, yanking a page free and slapping it down. "He's hired muscle but he's smart. He's the one who set her up with a contact on her op last year, and he's flying to meet with the people she's infiltrating next week. He'll blow her cover to hell."
"This isn't your operation, Agent Chang, and even if it was, she's got a sufficient backstory and disguise to handle some idiot mercenary from a year ago. Now get out of my office."
"She's your responsibility, you have to watch out for her."
"You're right, she's my agent, not yours. You're not even in this division, are you? Go back to the Chinese desk, I'm sure they can use you there."
"Listen, you arrogant little—" He's yanked back by another agent before he can finish.
"Get him out of here before I have him arrested."
"You have to—"
He throws a punch at the agent trying to drag him out, landing solidly in his stomach. Two others rush him, landing their own hits to his face and leaving him disoriented and with a swelling contusion on one cheek before he's thrown out in the hall and immediately swooped up by his own boss. The reprimand lasts longer than any one of his entire life, and he stands stoically until his boss's face is no longer red. As the office quiets, he sets his badge on the desk and walks out.
The next day, he's on a plane to France with a fake identity to track down an arms dealer.
He follows her one night, knowing she'll figure him out soon enough, after she's left the arms dealer's offices. Two blocks in, she fakes him into an alley and has a gun pressed under his jaw before the impact against a brick wall has shoved the air out of his lungs.
"Hi," he wheezes.
Her eyes widen, and she jerks the gun away. Her hair is blonde and her shoulders are tight under the white knit of a cardigan—he's never seen in her in a cardigan before ,much less a headband and a sundress and pearls, and it's almost as disconcerting as the fact that he's flown to Europe under a fake identity after abandoning the CIA.
"What the hell—"
He holds out a picture for her. "Remember him? Terrible croquet player."
"What the hell does he have to do with anything and why the hell are you in France?" The gun is tucked into her purse, but he keeps his arms up peacefully.
"He's coming here. Flight lands in two days. He's protecting one of the guys meeting with your new boss."
"He—what?"
"He'll remember you."
"Shit," she mutters. "Shit. Do I have an exit plan? Why are you here instead of—"
"Your boss is a dick," he says. "He didn't think you'd be compromised."
"Seriously? Of course I'm going to be fucking compromised. How did you—"
"I quit."
She stares at him, blinking owlishly once, twice, a third time. "You quit?"
"I quit," he says again.
"To come save the day and be the hero?" Her arms cross over her stomach, and his chest aches. She's never looked so vulnerable before.
"To come be with you," he counters. "Lucy—Quinn—there was no way I was going to let you get fucked over by your incompetent boss. I don't care if you go back to work, that's your prerogative, but I'm not. I want to start over, I'm tired of the job and I don't want to spend the rest of my life there. If you want to start over with me, that would be great. If not—"
"You'll find someone else?" Her voice is flat, her eyes uncertain, and one hand twitches towards the healing bruising on his cheek.
"Someone who speaks more languages than I do and can occasionally beat me in a fight? Probably not. But I can probably survive without it, if I have to."
"Occasionally?" she rolls her eyes at him. "Please, you're so full of it."
"Prove it," he says, pulling her hands free and gripping them in his. Her fingers slide between his, automatic and familiar. "What do you say?"
She stares at him, sharp and appraising, as long seconds click past, before nodding. He smiles slowly, releasing one of her hands to press his against her cheek gently for a brief second. She turns into the touch for an even shorter moment before he lets his hand fall.
"You and me, together," he says. "Right?"
"Always," she says quietly. She steps into him, rocking up on her toes to press a familiar kiss to his mouth. "It'll be easy."
Two days later, they're trying to make their way out of the maze of a compound that the drug dealer lives in, and the small fleet of angry French muscle chasing them is an unfortunate variable. They had been caught trying to sneak out the ledger that she had been working towards for months—quitting the CIA had done nothing to quell the competitive spirit they each held, and she hated to leave a job unfinished—and managed to find a brief reprieve behind a garden shed.
"I thought you said this was going to be easy," he grumbles, gun drawn and eyes scanning the perimeter while she reloads.
"I lied," she says. She hands him the reloaded gun and takes his, checking the clip. Her hair is matted against sweaty face, her dress marred with gunpowder stains and what he's pretty sure is someone else's blood. He looks worse, he's sure, because the contusion on his cheek is bleeding again, but he smiles anyways.
She flashes a smirk his way and winks. "Come on, featherweight. Let's go find that retirement plan."
It ends in Cape Verde, where they have a house and a dog and fake identities. Her hair is still blonde and his is just long enough to be messy, like it was the first time they went hiking. He works in a bank and she teaches at a martial arts studio. She still calls him a featherweight and he still teases her about how often her eyes wander along the defined lines of his stomach and the ripple of muscle in his back.
To the people of Praia, they're David and Marie, the British expatriates who live in a modest house on the beach and speak flawless Portuguese and have a dog named Vancouver. It's only when they're alone, safe in their home, that he whispers reverently against the angles of her jaw, the skin of her stomach, the shell of her ear, the name Quinn.