Chapter 1

"She bites her bottom lip in that merciless way that makes Cosima's knees buckle and you seriously consider the evaporating line between fiction and reality."

Are Ebro and Tmas that funny when they're alone? Is the chemistry that jumps off the screen as present on the set? MasBro are a creative match made in heaven. RLP imaginary adventure trip set between the airing of Season 2 and the filming of Season 3. What if they let their guards down and just….

I do not know any of the people mentioned passively, or otherwise. This is completely a work of fiction. FICTION. That said, they sure are dreamy and would make quite a lovely power couple, no?

If this isn't your thing, that's cool. Just please try not to judge it before you give it a shot. I actually started this fic as a cophine story but it felt forced and wasn't working. So this happened and I'm surprised by how far it ran. I respect these actors profoundly and thus tried to compose the most honest and respectful story possible. It was a sweet ride.

All typos and errors mine, all mine, an impatient self editor here.

"Êtes-vous prêt à aller, ma chérie?" she whispers, ever so discretely, into your ear as she sneaks up behind you just near the loo. It takes a few breathy moments for you to do the math in your head. You have to re-organize the verbs and the nouns into familiar structures and translate her sweet talk from French to English, from Delphne, to Évelyne. From then to now. The air grips the back of your throat a second longer than it should before you can spin around blurting out "Of course, of course. Let's do this!" with an audible laugh.

You find yourself rolling up on the balls of your feet to meet her sunglasses with your eyes, just as she places her cool hands on each of your bare shoulders returning your feet firmly to the floor. Something about her focus is disarming and unexpected. But before you can speak, she interrupts the thought. "Let me just say goodbye to the others and grab my bag? Okay?" Her voice is calm and bright, yet you can actually hear the wind escape your own lungs. You swear that you can actually see the twinkle in her eyes behind her shades. Your unsteady legs suddenly wobble and words cluster behind your cheeky grin like a damn.

This moment suspends. She cocks her head sharply to the left and a smile unfurls, dimples fully consuming her cheeks. You feel your own flush at the recognition that there's lipstick, for lack of a better word, crusted, into the corners of her lips and you have to force yourself to resist the temptation to reach out and touch them with your fingertips, smooth the crimson-pink back over the bowing grin before you, but you don't. Instead you dig your hands deep into your pockets and scamper behind her like a field mouse begging to get caught.

"Tat-e-yannha!" she whines "Êtes-vous essayer de me tuer?"

"Me? Want you dead?" you call out over your shoulder, as the space between you increases. "Never."

Her footfalls race to meet you.

"We were supposed to leave an hour ago, we're going to miss the last train!" she scolds as she catches you in her long arms like a vice, pinning your limbs to your sides. Your noses bounce apart. The laughter is organic. Effortless. Genuine. She always makes you laugh. Such a clown, such a drama queen 'cette fille juste pourrait vous tuer' you think to yourself cockily. But seriously Tat? Even your imaginary command of French is weak at best.

"Train? What train? You didn't tell me about a train," you calmly implore and she lets go, lifting her sunglasses to the crown of curls loosely arranged on her head.

"Merde" she mutters half under her breath, the tips of her ears gone red.

"Évelyne, where are we going?" Petulant is not your favorite mode. But it works.

She bites her bottom lip in that merciless way that makes Cosima's knees buckle and you seriously consider the evaporating line between fiction and reality.

"I only have a backpack and one set of over-night clothes," you continue, trying desperately to ground you both in the present but still very much enjoying how absolutely uncomfortable she is getting busted. "I thought we were going to a spa or a yoga thing or something. Where are we going that requires a train? Evie? Really?"

"Can you just not ask more questions? Trust me, mon petit chiot?" Her eyes fall from your mouth to the floor and back again.

Puppy. Really? She dropped the puppy card?

"Okay, okay. I'm game. I told you I'd be game for anything, but I'm terrible at the not knowing, you know this. We've met." She laughs at how adorably uptight you are and you see your own hands swinging in front of you in hyper gesticulations of "it's okay, it's okay, no one's mad." Eventually your open palms come to rest on her cheeks. You pull her forehead to your own, gently tug her down from the ridiculous elevation of her shoes and gently kiss the place where curls meet the softness of her skin. "Thank you for Tat-napping me. Where ever we're going. I'm sure we'll have a great time." Trust reinstated, you can feel her smile even though you cannot see it. Maybe because Évelyne's smile is so warm it radiates all the way back up to your lips.