A/N: Something I wrote in a little break from the studying. Not nearly as good as I'd like but I don't care. It came to me.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own it.
FALLEN ANGELS
They were legendary. Nothing but, never simple. Sharon had always admired them with with unadulterated awe. Everyone knew them of them because nobody knew them. Nobody but themselves and the countless aliases they'd had over the years.
Trained and vetted by the best of the best. The names of their mentors had been lost in history, their legacies passed on with this pair who outshone their mentors. Sharon had heard of G. Callen and Henrietta Lange when she did her research as per requested. While both their deeds and resumes were remarkable, both enigmas of previously outstanding character, their proteges had long transcended their level of deception and cunning. It sent shivers down her spine to think of the day she would become the handler of one of them.
Never in her life had she expected to become a handler of one Kensi Blye; or at least she who used to be Kensi Blye. She had that distant, hard look that seemed to define operatives with expertise in undercover work. Her only true passion seemed to be the well-being of her partner, not the mission itself. Sharon suspected it was because of that; missions changed, were filed away, aliases killed off; but her partner always remained the same. That was part of the flair, part of the package deal mystery.
Blye worked alone, yeah, but mostly, and routinely, she worked with the one who Sharon and fellow techies had dubbed the Surfer. It might have been something to do with his tendencies, but now it reeked of his easy ability to slip and surf into others. He had that carefree look, the handsome yet-to-fully-grow-up, but his eyes were haunted by his deeds. Sharon didn't like the way he looked at them: people who didn't know what it was about. There was anger, even resentment, but also jealousy and envy. Protectiveness that only surfaced when Blye was in utter danger. Anger because of their foolishly naivete. Resentment for being able to go home to their families and friends while all he could do was go to some new motel, alone, unaccompanied, for the sake of security. All emotions barely visible, but showing more than the stoicism of his partner.
Despite their missions and what everybody believed, Blye and the Surfer ran this place with a presently unrivaled passion. Their pasts were gone, washed away, and in spite of their conflicting emotions, they were Sharon's best guess at tabula rasae. Clean slates. Only each other truly understanding the dark loneliness. And Sharon and the techies acknowledged that. While they were replaceable, it would take time to find another Surfer and another Blye. In the end, Blye and the Surfer knew of their own mortality.
Sharon would like to believe that they did this out of a need for justice. But the way their expressions always seemed saddened after a success had made her disbelieve of that. No, they were stuck in routines, leaving a little bit of themselves behind in each alias. They did it to honor lost loved ones, so deaths so carelessly discarded wouldn't have been in vain. Mourning was always upon their faces when they came in, dressed sleekly and fashionable, their souls tainted with experience. Wisdom was not an age factor. To Sharon, the Surfer and Blye had truckloads of it, hiding it within to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders as if that made the suffering of everyone else easier.
Sharon noticed things she knew her bosses – and fellow techies – didn't want her to see. How Blye always burnt the case files herself in the incinerator, keeping a flash drive in the silver necklace around her neck. How she rubbed her collarbone when she got nervous or frustrated. Sharon had only once – accidentally – seen the horrible scar she had there, hidden behind makeup and plastic surgery and whatever the bureau sent her way.
People liked the Surfer better. He wasn't as ruthless as Blye, didn't have that aggressive brutality in him. At first glance. Sharon had born witness to Blye rampaging a punching bag and a dummy in one session, a dangerously fierce gleam in her eyes. One that said she was ready to kill mercilessly.
The Surfer, for most parts, managed to restrain himself although Sharon had heard from Ricky that he possessed the same aggression. The same edge that they survived on amongst the worst of the worst.
If they'd slept together? Definitely. Nobody mentioned it, nobody had proof, but nobody doubted that Blye and the Surfer regularly did the horizontal tango. Although it was against regulations, no-one – not even the more tight and compliant types in their division – filed an official report or complaint. They saw it, took it for what it was, and moved on. They were their bosses; they could deal with reprimands from higher-ups, but when it all came down to it, every techie onboard thought that they deserved it. After all, they sacrificed every last bit of themselves and suffered extremely humiliating downfalls only to bounce back and walk stoically on like they hadn't been about to be sexually assaulted to keep in character or hadn't beaten an innocent to remain in cover. Personalities were all relative. The constant in their lives were each other. A firm belief of Sharon's. As her contact and handler – although Blye had had more handlers than fingers already and Sharon had had none – Sharon grew a bit closer to Blye. By each call, she started hearing the half-pitched desperation and opposing gratitude that the mission wasn't over. She was the one who filed the reports about the gruesome things Blye endured and saw, even took part of. Her current cover was a sadistic woman who held grudges against everyone who'd ever wronged her. It suited Blye, and even Sharon got the chills when she heard Blye's voice through the ear-piece. Blye played the part beautifully.
During that particular op, Assistant Director Granger showed up. His ulterior motives weren't made clear, so each techie suspiciously continued backstopping his or her asset, looking thoroughly over their shoulders in the process. While this place was one of none alike, each techie – short for technical supervisor – handled their asset with care and humility.
Granger quickly took interest in Blye. Sharon understood. How could he not? Aside from the fact that the managing supervisor was doing ops herself, and that he'd had her under investigation in his past (as Blye's handler, she had free access to her file, something few did and had already gotten a few offers and bribes; she had refused though, respecting Blye enough not to get on her pissed-off side), Blye was gorgeous. Even Sharon's heart would start thudding harder if Blye made a move; and she was perfectly hetero. Blye, even with her intimacy issues and aggressive tendencies (for personality existed no longer), was ravishing. The way she was aware of every inch of her body and people's reactions to it, and yet could act like she was all naively oblivious.. it had to be a turn-on. But Sharon had heard about the poor techie who'd been a little too impressed at seeing Blye to his obvious arousal. Blye had coldly, not teasingly, ordered him off her immediate team, threatening with a sexual harassment complaint. Only the Surfer had kept her from issuing it.
Waves of rich brown hair that reached her lower back, delicately hiding scars, framing her face exotically. She could work a room better than anyone Sharon knew, flip from one sexy flirtatious woman to an ice-cold killer with the blink of an eye. Most men were intimidated by that; the Surfer and apparently, Granger excluded.
"Miss Hart, how're things going?" Granger asked, as always, sternly. Sharon wanted most of all to roll her eyes and reprimand him for his untimely and unprofessional interest in Blye's mission, but kept herself from it, never finding the courage and quite liking her current assignment.
"Her backstopping holds. I'm upgrading it as I go, and we've got a few hits, but nothing spectacular. People seems to believe she is Natalie Loeb," Sharon said, realizing her wrong choice of words. Of course people believed Blye was Loeb, because she was. For the time being, Blye didn't exist.
"Have you coordinated with Razor about Mr Deeks' identity as well?" he continued, never battering an eye. He squirmed a bit when he named the nickname of one of the best backstoppers around this division. Razor, no last name, no name, was the best. The Surfer didn't need backstopping as much as others. He created himself, the backstopping simply an official statement of his words. Razor liked working with the Surfer's techie, so he had gotten used to Razor's being there.
"Yes, sir. Canaan Maxwell will be joining Blye tonight, a full backstopping in place."
Granger seemed unnerved with the thought of Blye and the Surfer working together; like he saw something else than the inevitable potential for success. Blye and the Surfer were so in sync that there wasn't room for doubt when they hooked up on missions. Figuratively, of course. Never physically as far as Sharon knew. Then she suddenly got nervous on Blye's behalf. Maybe that was why Granger was here? To investigate the closeness of Blye and the Surfer?
…
Natalie Loeb was normally a fighter, not a lover.
However, having her nails dig into the skin of Canaan and choke on an orgasm while being pushed against the crapy hardness of a brick wall was a kind of pleasure she couldn't deny.
Her fingers ran through the combed-back blonde hair, her legs numb around the waist of her companion. While a tiny voice inside her head told her she was getting too old for this, a deeper sensation in the pit of her stomach screamed for more as she felt him inside her. Moaning with pleasure and familiarity, her lips bruised against his, losing the control that Natalie usually had.
Untangling herself, she pushed him back with a light shove on his shoulders. Then she looked at him challengingly, igniting desire in her mismatched eyes. She pouted, wiggling a finger at him, inviting him in from the cold of the dark alley.
Canaan Maxwell did not hesitate.
Hours later, light bruises in places that would never be seen, they laid gasping. Playfully, she began placing kisses down his lean and tender body, taking a morbid pleasure in hearing him wince when she hit a particular bruised spot. The raw desire and want had eased out, leaving their shells and aliases behind. Now they were back, the impersonations of what they'd once been.
"Oh, Kens," he groaned, stroking the long hair back from her face. His hands stayed on her back possessively. She laid, completely nude on her stomach, her head resting on his abdomen. Glinting eyes stared back at him as he untangled his fingers from her soft hair.
"We have got to stop meeting like this," she noted playfully, leaning up for a kiss he willingly placed.
"If you keep this kind of treatment up –." Kiss. "–there won't be much less to adore, babe."
"Hey!" she said, her hands keeping a fist of his hair tight. "I am in charge, remember? I decide when it's done."
"Dominatrix," he jokingly threw back, nevertheless enjoying the care she was providing. "Managing operations supervisor. Some Hetty you make."
A flash of grief crossed Kensi's face but it was gone before he could comment it. His words weren't meant to sting, but to acknowledge things passed.
"A lot of thing happened nobody would have seen," she said coldly, losing her playfulness as she sat up in bed, stealing most of the sheets to wrap her body in. She sent him a knowing look, and silently they reminisced over lost friends and coworkers.
"Hey," he said mildly, putting his finger affectionately under her chin and softly leading her to a soft kiss, the direct opposite of the ones exchanged in the alley and afterwards. "I'm still here."
"You are." It was a statement, not a question. They had gone through years with the doubt before acknowledging that they were the sole survivors of an unique group. They had been bound to fall into bed with each other at some point, and made an occasion of meeting at least once in each long-term mission. Here they could make their own rules of this make-believe game. Here they pretended to be themselves, or somebody else with the same devotion towards each other. It was in these hours of night that they could reclaim each other a thousand times on, emotionally and physically. Physical pain was something they endured on a daily basis.
He curled some of her hair around his finger. "You ever wonder what it is going to be like? Not being on missions?"
She licked her lips. "I don't. I figure I am too likely to end up with a bullet somewhere than to reach Hetty's level. You're all I have left."
"And your mom," he pointed out, sad that she saw the fate of herself murdered more likely than the one to end up dying of old age with fat grandchildren around her. But he didn't comment that, because she could say the same about him. And arguments weren't worth that.
She snorted. "I haven't seen her in years, Deeks. I found it easier to.." Her voice grew hoarse, a trait so unlike her, who had hid behind the emotional numbness in years.
".. be your father? Kens, that's not gonna happen."
And he comforted her, like he always had, because that was what they did. They had had these conversations more times than he cared to remember, most times ending up in each other's lap but also ending up shot in the shoulder due to a rage-born recklessness.