Title: Proxy
He never actually fucked her, not really. She's not sure precisely how to say that she fucked him, while he watched her with half-open eyes and said nothing. She pushed him against the wall, impatient, and squirmed as one hand slid between her legs, the other brushing gently against her cheek and up to stroke her hair, displacing the incongruous blue beret. "You don't look anything like a peacekeeper," he observed, and his fingers hooked around her panties and pushed the flimsy material out of the way. "I don't know what Wardrobe was thinking."
She isn't sure whether she had actually ever liked him, or whether the hissed "shut up" as she pressed both her hands over his mouth was a mere affectation. Maybe it didn't matter, because she could feel his lips curl beneath her fingers, and his breath ghost over her skin, and she squirmed again, shivering. His fingertips were making tiny concentric circles in and around her, like butterfly wings brushing against her swollen flesh, and "shut up," Nadia said again, and the second time was a plea.
He never actually fucked her. She fucked him, against the wall in a rundown warehouse in Kigali, with no street lights and no defined mission to speak of, and their blue berets fallen to the ground. She fucked herself on his fingers, rising up on her toes and bearing down, grinding against the fine bones of his wrist. His jacket sleeves came down low - too low, really - and she was painfully aware of the shoddy stitching on the sleeve edge as he leaned back against the wall and it rasped over her, harsh and so fucking good she almost came there and then.
He did her the courtesy of waiting until she was done with him before pulling his fingers free and methodically wiping them on a 'kerchief he had conjured up from nowhere. "You don't look anything like a peacekeeper," he said again, with the familiar cold disdain in his voice, and, "fix your cap," as he picked up his beret from the floor and carefully set it back on his grey curls.
Nadia watched him rearrange his clothing, hating him a little. "You can be a real bastard, you know," she said, and was surprised to hear how little rancour there was in her voice.
At her words, Jack paused, hesitated, then walked back to her. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and buttoned her trousers, then zipped her back up. He picked up her beret and carefully set it back on her head, smoothing down her hair and straightening her shirt. "We should get going," he said quietly. "Your dad will be worried."
*
fin
