Standard Fanfic Disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters. I'm just borrowing them for, um, er, typing practice. Yeah, that's it, typing practice. (Hey, the quick red fox jumping over the lazy brown dog gets old real quick, y'know.) Based on characters and situations from the syndicated television show She Spies, originally published in the fanzine Diamonds and Dynamite #2, from Agents with Style.
Career Change
a She-Spies story
by Susan M. M.
Cassie McBain, con artist turned spy, rolled herself into her supervisor's office.
Mr. Cross smiled at her entrance. "You're looking much better than the last time I saw you." He walked behind her wheelchair and shut the door to ensure privacy.
"I'm just glad to get out of that hospital," the blonde said. "Have we tried a diet of nothing but hospital food to get bad guys to talk? A few days of that …"
Mr. Cross almost smiled again. Just a hint of a smile – the corners of his lips barely moved upward – but his brown eyes twinkled. "I'm afraid the Geneva Convention forbids it."
"Darn." She swung her hand in mock frustration, then winced at the pain even so slight a movement caused. "So, what did you want to see me about?"
"This isn't easy for me to ask, but have you considered leaving the She-Spies program?" Mr. Cross asked.
"And go back to prison? No way," Cassie protested. The ISD project code-named She-Spies had a very simple rationale: beautiful female criminals used their illicitly-gained skills as federal agents, and in return, they weren't serving their well-earned prison sentences. "What, because of this?" She gestured at the wheelchair. "I'll be out of this and back in action in no time. I heal quick," she assured him.
"You're going to be spending several months in physical therapy," Mr. Cross informed her. "Several long, arduous months before the doctors can even determine whether or not you'll eventually be fit to return to duty." He frowned, remembering his own physical therapy after he'd been shot. He'd been forced to transfer from field duty to a desk assignment despite his protests.
"You don't need to make a decision right away," the dark-haired spymaster told her. "You'll be in therapy for quite a while. But I would like you to consider the possibility of a new position."
Cassie waited for him to continue, or to explain. When he didn't, she asked, "What position?"
"As my wife, and the mother of my children."
Blue-gray eyes stared at him. "Are you proposing?"
Mr. Cross nodded.
"Are you serious?" Cassie demanded.
"I've never been more serious in my life. You're intelligent, resourceful, beautiful. You have a wonderful sense of humor. And I feel about you … a supervisor shouldn't have the feelings for one of his agents that I have for you," he confessed, brown eyes gazing down at her.
"You seriously expect me to agree to marry a guy I've never even dated?" Cassie asked. She didn't sound as indignant as she hoped to; Mr. Cross' offer tempted her too much. Besides, they had dated … sort of … if you counted being his escort to a dinner in honor of The Chairman.
"Let's not be coy, Agent McBain. I've been watching you. You've been watching me. You've seen me watching you; I've seen you watching me. It wasn't possible for us to date. You know it wouldn't be proper for me to fraternize with one of my subordinates. I said this wasn't easy to ask. I should be down on one knee, or reciting poetry, or singing you a love song. I'm … not very good at that sort of thing. But I love you, and I want to marry you."
"I wondered when you were going to get around to mentioning the L-word."
Mr. Cross walked over and shut the Venetian blinds on his office windows. Then he approached Cassie, leaned down, and kissed her. He bussed her good and proper. After a very long moment, he reluctantly broke away, releasing her lips. "Does that convince you how I feel?"
"It's a helluva good clue," Cassie conceded.
Mr. Cross kissed her again. "I love you. I want to marry you, if you're willing to leave the She-Spies program."
"And if I'm not willing?" Cassie asked, torn between an exciting job that kept her out of prison and a handsome, enigmatic man whom she'd been watching him watch her.
"Then once you're declared medically fit to return to duty, I request a transfer to Washington. Anything else would be … unprofessional."
Cassie thought a moment. She wasn't sure she was willing to give up the She-Spies. On the other hand, Mr. Cross was strong, attractive, intelligent, and until now, had been strictly off limits. She wasn't sure if she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, but she definitely didn't want him to move three thousand miles away.
"If I'm not medically fit for duty at the moment, then technically I'm not on duty, am I?" the con artist asked.
The director of ISD's California office nodded cautiously, not quite sure where she was heading.
"Then, technically, you're not my boss at the moment."
"Well …"
"Then how about my not-boss and I getting better acquainted?"
Mr. Cross smiled. "I'd like that, Cassie."
"I call my boss 'Mr. Cross' or 'sir.' Do I get to call a not-boss 'Quentin'?"
He sighed –- he'd never liked his first name -– and nodded reluctantly.
Cassie thought a moment. Quentin and Cassandra. They didn't sound half bad together.
"You have physical therapy scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at 3:00. When you finish, you'll be exhausted, in pain, and hating your therapist more than you've ever hated anyone in your life. May I meet you when your therapy session is over? Treat you to an early dinner, listen to you vent? Give you a shoulder to cry on if you need it?"
"Is physical therapy really that bad?" Cassie asked, remembering that Mr. Cross had been invalided out of duty as a field agent. When he nodded, she continued, "Make it Italian. Lasagna is good comfort food."
"Parisi's it is, then. Best lasagna in town," Mr. Cross told her.
"Sounds like a date." Cassie smiled and lifted her head up toward him. He bent down to reach her lips. "I'll see you tomorrow, Quentin."
"In this office, it's Mr. Cross," he reminded her. He opened the door so she could wheel herself out. He watched as she rolled across the office to the elevator, watching until the elevator came and she went downstairs. Then he reopened the Venetian blinds so he could keep an eye on his staff. He returned to his seat and tried to focus on his paperwork. He failed.