Author's Note: from a prompt at comment_fic on livejournal.
He says he's just another of the crew's recruits for the heist.
But you know something is off about him.
He keeps his eye on the exits, even when he tries to look nonchalant.
He's good at going unnoticed when he wants to. But mostly, he seems to like people looking at him. Actually, it seems he loves the attention.
And of course it's easy for him to make people like him. Sometimes all he has to do is flash his smile.
Though it really is a nice smile.
He also seems a little too interested in the paintings that the ensign smuggled in.
He is definitely more than what he seems.
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When asked, he's good at turning the conversation around, answering questions with questions, with skillful evasions.
When pressed, he responds with his weapon of choice. That smile.
Getting in his face yields a wink instead of a cower.
But you see. He is on the edge, pulled by his own nature, the burden and bliss of being an impulsive man who has learned to counter strong temptation with intelligent control.
Still, he is who he is.
So when he sees that his cover is blown, and you see that your cover is blown, but neither of you know if you're dealing with another agency or a infiltrating crew, it's clear.
This will end in love or war, and probably both.
He licks his lips, a fraction of an inch of motion.
You take it.
Mouth on mouth, tongue to tongue, then hands on faces and shoulder and chest and waist, and then lower until somehow you're in bed with someone whose name you'd rather not know, just in case it makes you enemies.
When it's done, you lie there next to him, breathing shallow.
At the exact same moment, you both say, "He's going to kill me," and you know that he answers to someone just as surely and completely as you do.
And then you laugh and you move closer. Because for another few minutes at least, it's just the two of you.