Paris.
Of all the places they have to be sent to, they're sent to Paris. It's not that Paris is a horrible place, it's just that it's Paris. The fucking city of love.
They should have gotten stationed elsewhere. Somewhere boring where they'd do something else to pass the time. But it was just their luck that their mission happened to be place in Paris.
"You're horrible at this," she says as she takes a small bite of her croissant.
They're currently at a quaint bistro, checking out their target.
He grabs her hand and gives it a kiss, going back to whatever he's working on with his phone.
"He's moving," she whispers.
"He's tracked."
She finishes off her food before she gets up and fishes through her purse for a couple of euros to pay. But he's beaten her to it, already having placed fifteen on the table and calling it enough.
"Let's go back to the hotel," he offers.
She starts walking in the opposite direction. "We're on our honeymoon. I want to see the sights, first."
Just like her to be the boss of him.
They end up at the Eiffel Tower moments later. Up at the first point of lookout, they stop to catch the view.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, after a long moment of silence.
"My job," she answers, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world.
"No. I mean here."
She raises an eyebrow. At the agency. Working for the CIA.
"They found me. Offered me a job. I accepted," she explains. "I didn't expect to bump into you here."
"Well you did," he says. He sighs, then looks at her. "Damn it," is all he mutters before he's pressing her up against the railing and kissing her.
She's ready to push him off but she doesn't. They're supposed to be newlyweds. He's the first to pull away.
"They're gone," he mumbles in her ear. She laughs as if he's said some kind of joke and nods.
He grabs her hand after that and calls sightseeing a day, telling her along the way that they're heading back to the hotel.
"What happened out there?" she asks as she takes off her shoes and cardigan at the door.
"One of them followed us from the bistro," he tells her. He glances out the window and sees a small glare.
He's quick to run to her then. Grabbing her, he drops down to the ground and hides on the opposite side of the bed.
"What…?" she begins to say.
Any answer is cut off by a spray of bullets coming in through both windows. He shields her with his body, waiting until there's a pause before instructing her to the door. They don't grab much but her shoes and the clothes on their backs.
"Damn it!" Puck says. She's about to take the elevator when he grabs her hand and takes her to the stairs. They're rushing down soon after, cutting through a service staircase to exit through the back of the hotel.
"What the hell happened in there?" she asks, holding onto his arm as she tries to slip her shoes back on.
"They found us. They followed us back here," he explains. He grabs her hand once she's got her shoes on and makes his way down the street.
It's only when they pass a costume shop that he realizes they need to hide themselves. A quick voyage inside and they come back out looking like completely different people.
The short black wig she sports is a nice addition to the fedora he wears. They look like they stepped out of the twenties and onto the Paris fashion scene.
"Call," he tells her, stopping at a pay phone and handing her some change. "Call it in. Let them know we're heading to the safe house. Make it quick."
The phone call is quick and easy. She hangs up and they leave, catching a cab to the outskirts of town.
An old man smoking a cigar stands outside of the building. Puck mumbles some words in French to him and Quinn marvels at the fluidity of his conversation.
"Come on," he tells her, reaching out for her hand.
She grabs it and heads inside, following him up a narrow flight of stairs and into a small apartment.
"We're good here," he tells her, taking one glance out the window.
She nods and removes we wig, placing it on the coffee table before she takes a seat. The bed's just behind them and from the looks of it there's only one.
"What now?" she asks him.
He opens up the refrigerator. "You have a problem with red meat?" he asks, holding up a couple of frozen steaks.
She notices the red stain on his shoulder while he's moving about the kitchen.
"I didn't know you knew how to cook," she says as she approaches him.
"There are a lot of things you don't know about me now—Ow!" he shouts.
She holds up a piece of glass she had pulled out of his shoulder. It's not that big but she can see that he'll probably need some stitches for that.
"Pause the cooking for a minute, Iron Chef. I need to clean you up," she tells him.
He protests, but like always, she gets her way. So while the steaks are cooking (he'll have to settle for medium well instead of medium rare this time around) she's stitching him up with whatever she's found inside of the first aid kit.
Dinner's thought to be eaten in silence. Except for when she asks him how in the world he ended up in the CIA, of all places.
"Shit happens," he shrugs. "I didn't feel like I was going anywhere."
She nods and continues eating. He excuses himself once he's done and heads straight for the shower.
She enters soon after, catching him by surprise. She mumbles something about their cover.
Whatever was started in there is finished on the bed. The sheets are pretty soaked from their bodies and her hair, but they're in each other's arms and soon forgetting about it.
"I thought I lost you," she whispers. Her head's on his chest as her finger dances along his scars. She can hear his heartbeat perfectly.
"I'm right here, babe," he tells her.
"That night. After our fight. Where did you run off to?" she asks.
"The Marines," he answers. "Special missions. Black ops. Got recruited from there and joined once I got home."
"I don't want to lose you again," she tells him. Her head's propped up on his chest now. "I can't."
"You won't," he says. "Not this time."