...Oops.
Honestly, I have no idea where all that time went... though then again, I started a new job at the beginning of the year and I'm also back to studying for the first time in half a dozen years, so the months just seem to just blur nowadays. Sigh. At least I'll be done with my exams by next July, so I will be a lot more free after that.
Anyway, hopefully there's still a few of you out there who are interested in these two and their lives at the FBI... and if not, well, I'll probably keep slowly adding to this anyway, because I really do want these guys to one day get the ending they deserve. But I guess we'll see.
In any case, this one yet again goes out to my bud Camila. Happy belated birthday for a second time, mate. Hope you enjoy the ridiculousness ahead.
#########
Weller was late.
Which was fine, really. It was only by a matter of minutes; maybe he'd just gotten caught up in his workout, or had decided to shower at the gym for once rather than waiting until he got back.
It was probably nothing.
It was almost definitely nothing.
Maybe. Probably.
Fuck.
Jaw clenched, Remi managed to focus on her study for all of about another thirty seconds before she finally cracked, reaching for the pager at her waist. Texting or calling him wasn't a possibility, of course, thanks to Mayfair's paranoia; it had been a battle to convince her even to let them to have each others' numbers in their phones, with the compromise being that they had to be listed under fake names and used in emergencies only.
In Remi's opinion, the risk was worth it; and if anyone ever managed to get close enough to her phone to ask about the 'Ahmad' she had on speed dial— Weller's name choice, not hers— she'd tell them to fuck off and mind their own fucking business, or she'd mind it for them.
Not that it was ever likely to be an issue anyway, given that most of the other recruits seemed to value their fingers highly enough to keep them well away from her stuff.
But then again, she'd learned a long time ago never to underestimate just how fucking stupid people could be.
She'd already pulled out her pager and was in the middle of entering the combination that would enable its message mode when Zapata suddenly spoke up from her spot on her bed, breaking the silence in the room for the first time since the guys had left for the gym.
"Hey, how do you feel about pool?"
Deftly tapping out a brief message, Remi didn't bother to look up. "It's pointless."
Zapata let out a small huff. "Let me rephrase. Are you any good at pool?"
"Good enough," she said, her thumb hovering over the send button as she glanced up, her eyebrows drawing together. "Why are we talking about this?"
"Reade just texted, he and Weller ran into Hauser and Lopez at the gym and the others invited them to play some pool in the rec room. He said we should come join."
Eyes dropping back to the pager in her hand, Remi hesitated for a moment, torn.
"It won't look suspicious," Zapata said, as if reading her thoughts. "He said Lopez was actually the one who suggested inviting us."
Frowning, she twisted in her chair to face Zapata. "What?"
Zapata shrugged. "It's not that weird. Apparently Reade mentioned something about me always kicking his ass at pool back in the day, and Lopez saw it as a challenge." Then, her voice turned sly. "Plus, from what I've seen, I think he'd be more than happy to have the excuse to hang out with you."
Remi made a face. "Lopez? I don't think so."
Sitting up, Zapata wiggled her brows. "Twenty bucks says he hits on you at least once."
Rolling her eyes, Remi looked away, pretending to think about it for a moment.
"If I were to lose— which I won't— I don't even have twenty bucks. Your boss froze my accounts, remember?"
"You'll figure something out," Zapata said blithely, then threw her a smirk. "Plus, like you said, you won't lose."
Blowing out through her nose, Remi shook her head. "Fine. Deal."
Zapata's grin turned broad. "Excellent, I see a lot of winning in my future. Let's give the guys another ten minutes to mostly finish their game and then we'll head down."
A little over ten minutes later, she and Zapata were walking into the rec room, a boxy, windowless space which looked like it hadn't been redecorated since the academy had been established back in the early seventies. To their left a mismatched collection of stools and armchairs surrounded a scratched wooden coffee table, its surface littered with magazines and playing cards, and beyond that was an equally ancient bookshelf holding a random collection of books and old board games, and what might have been a CD player. On the wall to their right was a dusty flatscreen tv with a few sagging couches arranged in a vague half-circle around it, currently occupied by a couple of trainees from an upper class. One of them glanced over briefly at the sound of the door, while the other stayed focused on the the figure they were controlling on the screen, its slightly pixellated form instantly recognizable as the 'agent' from the simulation video games that were a part of their training.
Considering that it was a Sunday— and also their cohort's second and final weekend of not being allowed off-campus— the place was surprisingly empty, the battered table tennis table and dart board both sitting unused, making the room almost unnervingly silent.
A silence that was due in large part to the fact that the four men gathered around the pool table at the far end of the room had halted in the middle of their game to watch the two of them approach, some more subtly than others.
No doubt many women— and men for that matter— would find it both intimidating and exciting to be met with the sight of four good-looking former soldiers awaiting them, each one tall and powerfully built, all freshly showered and changed post workout.
But Remi had spent half her life surrounded by men in peak physical condition, and had long been all but immune to them.
Well, except for one.
One who she was careful to let her eyes pass over with the exact same level of indifference as the other three, her gaze falling instead to the table, as if she actually had any interest whatsoever in the outcome of their little game.
"Hey, you made it," Reade said as they drew close, his voice warm with welcome.
Zapata tipped her chin at them. "Hey, guys. So who's losing?"
"That would be us," Lopez sighed, then tilted his cue slightly in Reade's direction. "Your buddy is about to shoot for the black now."
"I think you mean, about to pot the black," Reade tossed back, an easygoing confidence to his voice that felt at odds with his usual reserved manner, making Remi feel the slightest prickle of unease, an uncomfortable reminder that this man— the man responsible for Weller's safety— was still hardly more than a stranger.
"Big talk for someone who could barely hit a ball when we first met," Zapata teased, and he grinned up at her.
"Well, I learned from the best," he said, then effortlessly potted the black, earning a hearty clap on the back from Weller while Lopez groaned.
Turning back to Remi and Zapata, Reade raised his eyebrows. "So, you two think you're up for challenging the champs?"
"Can't wait to knock you off the throne," Zapata shot back, her wicked grin softening slightly as Hauser stepped forward to silently offer her his cue, the two of them exchanging a polite nod.
Lopez's offer was certainly not silent, his body leaning in towards Remi's as he handed her the cue, his voice warm and encouraging, as if they were on the same team. "All yours, Briggs. Give 'em hell."
Seeing the deliberately suave grin he wore, the way his eyes lingered on hers, she had to fight to keep the annoyance off her face.
Christ, maybe Zapata wasn't as off base as she'd thought.
Taking the cue from him with a curt nod, she turned away to watch Weller set the table, his eyes carefully focused on his task.
"Because we're nice, we'll even let you break," Zapata said, leaning a hip against the edge of the table, seeming genuinely completely at ease.
"Very generous," Reade retorted, then glanced at Weller, raising his brows in question.
Seeing Weller's small 'go ahead' gesture, he stepped up to take the first shot, and she and Weller both shifted in tandem, tracking the ball's path from their mirrored positions on opposite sides of the table.
Unfortunately, they weren't the only ones watching; from the corner of her eye she could see Hauser and Lopez had taken up positions against the nearby wall, where they'd have a clear view of the game but still be out of the way. She'd hoped they had better things to do than hang around and spectate, but clearly not.
Glancing up from the now-scattered balls— she was almost surprised none had ended up in a pocket— Remi looked to Zapata, and at her nod, Remi stepped up to take the next turn.
"How about we make this even more interesting?" Lopez said suddenly, a devious note entering his voice. "I vote that every time someone misses a potshot, they have to answer a question. Seems only right, since that polygraph session the other day was clearly intended to get us all thinking about each other's secrets and all."
"Seems like you two get off easy in this deal," Reade casually pointed out, immediately drawing the focus to himself in case the rest of them needed a moment to control their reactions— or, more accurately, in case Weller needed a moment.
She had to appreciate him for that.
Grinning, Lopez considered that, running a hand over the dark stubble on his chin, which was only a fraction shorter than that on his shaved head. "Fine, then with every ball that gets potted you guys can choose to ask me or Hauser something."
"Hey," Hauser said, brow creasing, but Lopez ignored him.
"Unless you guys have something to hide?" he teased, lifting his brows.
"I'm down," Zapata said, then winked at Lopez. "But that's because I don't miss."
Reade glanced at Weller, who shrugged, seeming completely unaffected. "Could be fun."
With a nod, Reade turned to her. "Briggs?"
"Whatever." It made no difference to her; even if she did miss a shot, which wasn't likely, she could lie well enough to beat a machine literally designed to detect dishonesty. Convincing a couple of grunts would hardly present a challenge.
"Alright then, Lopez. You got a deal," Reade said, then gestured for her to carry on.
Turning her attention back to the table, she lined up, and a moment later the ball was in the pocket.
"Ask away, Briggs. No holds barred," Lopez said as she straightened up, clearly eager to talk about himself.
Remi met his eyes dead on. "Pass."
"Nope, no passing allowed," Lopez said with a firm shake of his head. "Questions have to be asked and answered. Those are the rules."
Resisting the temptation to tell him exactly what she thought of his little rules, she turned to his roommate instead, enjoying the flicker of disappointment she saw on Lopez's face as she did.
"What part of Germany did you grow up in?"
She knew, of course. It was common knowledge among the cohort that Hauser been raised over there, but naturally the profile she'd memorized about him had been much more comprehensive.
"In the south. Near Nuremberg," Hauser answered, his voice as deep and quiet as ever, the accent barely detectable. "But I moved back over here when I was ten."
With a small nod of acknowledgement, she turned back to the game and took her next shot— not for a pocket this time— and then stepped back, seeing Reade look to Weller.
"Alright, you're up, Weller."
Shifting closer to the table, Weller assessed his options, his eyes lingering on a ball that she knew could be sunk in one of the corner pockets if he angled it right.
He could easily pick one of the others, play it safe, but that wasn't Weller.
Leaning in, he lined up— and though he kept his eyes on the ball, she knew his words were for her, his lips twitching. "Well, here goes nothing."
The hit was good, but not good enough. The ball bounced back off the very edge of the cushion, and Weller sighed, eyes lifting as he awaited his question.
"Okay, Weller, I just gotta know," Lopez said immediately, and she watched Weller desperately trying not to tense up, his easy expression wavering for just a fraction of a second before Lopez spoke again. "What's the story with the scars? I've seen them in the locker room, and I mean, they look kinda intense, man."
Now it was her turn to tense up. From the corner of her eye saw him hesitate for half a beat, his eyes carefully avoiding her direction as he gave his answer.
"I caught some shrapnel when my vehicle blew up in Afghanistan."
"Shit, man, I'm sorry," Lopez said, any trace of playfulness now completely gone, a look in his eyes that said that this was an experience he understood. "Your squad?"
"That's two questions," Reade started to say, and she felt an unexpected rush of gratitude toward him even as Weller waved him off.
"It's alright," he said, then looked at Lopez, his gaze steady and serious. "None of the men made it."
Taking that in, both Lopez and Hauser looked grave; no doubt they'd both lost friends in a similar way. When Lopez nodded at Weller a moment later, there was a quiet respect in it, and for a moment she found herself disliking him just a tiny bit less.
Apparently sensing it was time to move things along, Zapata stepped up and took her turn, and as promised, didn't miss. As she was lining up her next target— this one just a regular shot, simply repositioning a ball rather than potting it— she gave Lopez a grin, asking whether La Chancla was as feared in his house as it was in hers.
Lopez laughed, giving a reply in rapidfire Spanish. Then, he looked at Remi and repeated himself in English, clearly completely unaware that aside from Zapata, she was the one who needed the translation least. Leaving it to the men to actually laugh at his little story about dodging flying sandals, she grudgingly favored him with a forced half-smile— the act purely for Weller's benefit, since he was so eager for her to make friends— then proceeded to regret it immediately as Lopez positively lit up.
"There it is! I knew I'd crack you eventually, Briggs."
"Careful, Lopez, or you'll be the one getting cracked," Reade warned with a wry smile, tapping at his temple. "But over the head with a pool cue. Now, I believe I'm up. Watch and learn."
Surprisingly, they actually got through an entire round where no one missed a pot shot, keeping the focus on Lopez and Hauser for a little while, learning simple things like where Lopez did Basic Training— thankfully, in an entirely different state to both Reade and Weller— and what sports teams they both followed, and how Hauser felt about sauerkraut.
It was light, casual, nothing too personal.
And then Reade's shot went just a fraction wide, and Lopez rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
"Alright, Reeves. You gotta know what I'm gonna ask."
Reade looked at Zapata, voice dry. "Here it comes."
Looking from one to the other, Lopez asked devilishly, "So what exactly is the deal with you two?"
Reade chuckled. "We're just friends. That's all."
"Are you sure? Because I'm getting a vibe," he pressed, eyebrows wiggling.
"Oh, we're sure," Zapata drawled, leaning a little on her cue as she met Lopez's gaze with a smirk.
"Trust us," Reade said. "We kissed once, way back at the academy, and let's just say there's a reason why we've never done it again."
Lopez looked far more pleased about that than he should. "Man, are you that bad of a kisser, Reeves?"
"Who says I was the problem?" Reade said mischievously, then shook his head with a smile. "Nah, it was just really clear right away that we were only ever going to be friends."
"Things change," Lopez wheedled, and Remi had to work to keep her annoyance from showing on her face. Personally, she couldn't care less about Zapata and Reade's private lives— at least, as long as nothing about them interfered with the job they were here to do— but that didn't stop Lopez's prying from getting on her fucking nerves.
"Not this," Zapata answered breezily, clearly not sharing Remi's irritation. "Plus, Reeves is a taken man. If you'd ever seen him and his girlfriend together, you would have never asked about the two of us. They're so cute it's disgusting."
"Hey, are we playing pool or are we gossiping about our love lives?" Weller asked suddenly, his tone the perfect mix of amused and impatient, deftly steering them all back to the game. "Briggs, wanna take your shot?"
There was definitely something she wanted to take. Letting her eyes meet his for a split second as she stepped up to the table, she let him see it, seeing the way his own eyes darkened slightly before he quickly looked away.
"C'mon, we're all just trying to get to know each other better, right?" Lopez said, cheerfully oblivious, shooting a sidelong glance at Hauser— though if it was his roommate's support he was after, he didn't get it, Hauser's attention seeming fixed on the game in front of them as she lined up her shot.
One by one, they carried on, and for the next two rounds they all either potted the shot they were going for— and asked their question— or didn't attempt to sink anything.
With most of the questions being asked of Lopez or Hauser, Remi barely bothered to listen to the answers; some because she already knew them from their file, but more often because she just really didn't care what they were.
That was, until Weller asked politely, "So Hauser, what kind of Marine were you?"
There was a moment's hesitation before he gave the answer, and when he did, his voice was quiet. "Force Recon."
Remi sensed all four of them reflexively stiffen a little at that; after all, the file they'd had on him hadn't specified which particular branch of the Marines he'd been in, which now felt like a glaring omission. Because a Marine was one thing, but a Force Recon Marine? They were the elite of their kind, operating deeper in enemy territory than standard reconnaissance ever went, seeking out enemy encampments and reporting on them from dangerously close by, even engaging in direct combat missions against much larger forces, often without any support or hope for evac if all went to shit.
Basically, Force Recon and Orion were two sides of the same coin, the only real difference being that Force Recon officially existed, which meant it had to play by the rules or face the consequences.
Orion had no such limitations, of course, as she and Weller knew all too well.
Still, with those two simple words, Hauser had just identified himself as the only member of their trainee cohort whose skills were at a level to match their own— and as exactly the type of soldier that Orion would have been tripping over themselves to recruit.
Immediately, her mind branded him a threat— but somehow, surprisingly, her gut didn't seem quite so sure.
Didn't mean she would be letting her guard down around him any time soon.
Recovering quickly, Reade spoke up before their silence could become too glaring. "Wow, man, I had no idea. That's seriously impressive."
"Right? You're telling me," Lopez said in enthusiastic agreement, nudging his buddy with his shoulder. "Just don't get your hopes up for any battle stories. My man here prefers to keep that shit close to the chest."
Her expression unreadable, Zapata moved to take her shot, and a moment later the ball was in the pocket. She directed her question at Lopez, getting him talking about what foods he couldn't live without, and then Reade stepped up and missed yet another pot shot— this time on purpose, Remi suspected— the conversation swiftly moving along as he answered his question, something to do with college football.
Now that it was her turn, she assessed her options, focusing on the red ball sitting close to the side pocket, the angle more than manageable. As she began to line it up, she heard Lopez speak up from the other side of the table, a subtle eagerness to his voice. "Alright, Briggs, if you miss this shot, you have to tell us if there's a man in your life."
Looking up at him, she quirked an eyebrow, her voice deadpan. "Who says I'm interested in men?"
Down at the end of the table, Weller made a choking sound that swiftly became a harsh cough, turning away with his fist in front of his mouth. Beside her, she heard Zapata snort softly; though whether it was at the blatant lie, or Weller's reaction, or the look of utter dumb surprise on Lopez's face, it was hard to tell.
Without taking her eyes off of Lopez, she smoothly sank the ball, a shadow of a smirk forming as she straightened up.
To his credit, he recovered quicker than she'd expected, that suave tone returning. "Hey, if you gave me the chance, I bet I could get you interested."
Deliberately ignoring Zapata's triumphant expression— Remi was already well aware of just how much she loved being proven right— she shot him an unimpressed look.
"Trust me, if I did choose to be with someone, it would be because he was superior to literally every other person I'd ever met," she said simply, meaning every word. Then, she gave a small shake of her head, letting her disdain show. "And right now, you're not even ranking in the top half of that group."
For a moment he just stared at her, taken aback— and then he grinned suddenly, seeming genuinely delighted. "Honestly, I don't know if I would envy that man or fear for his life. But if I apologize for being an ass, do you think I might ever make it to the 'friend' rank on that list?"
He sounded so sincere that she paused, eyes narrowing as she looked him over with an assessing gaze.
Finally, she acknowledged dryly, "Stranger things have happened."
"Okay, now that we know there's not about to be a murder in the middle of campus, it's still your shot, Briggs," Reade said, his amusement clear in his voice.
Turning away from Lopez, she glanced at both Reade and Zapata, who looked far too entertained by the situation; and beyond them, Weller was staring down at the table, unsuccessfully holding back a grin. Hell, even Hauser had cracked a smile.
Rolling her eyes, she ignored them all, instead returning her focus to the game. Taking a shot that would set one of their final balls up to be easily sunk on their next turn, she straightened and stepped back, meeting Weller's eyes across the table.
"All yours, Weller."
##########
They lost.
Really, it was hardly surprising, even though both he and Reade were decent players; it'd been clear right from the start that they were out of their depth.
For her part, Remi was good; she had more than enough hand-eye coordination to do well, but she also played it smart, choosing her shots tactically, never attempting a shot that was outside her skill level, potting only what she knew she could and otherwise simply positioning the ball where Zapata would be able to make the best use of it.
As far as strategies went, it was a hell of a good one— because damn, Zapata could play.
She played pool the way Remi used her own myriad skills; with a deadly confidence and grace, easily pulling off things that seemed like they should be impossible.
After she'd potted the black ball— even switching the cue to her left hand to do it— Lopez shook his head in disbelief.
"Shit, Zamora, where'd you learn to play like that?"
Laying her cue down on the felt tabletop, Zapata gave a small, casual shrug. "I grew up poor. My brothers had taught me to play when I was little, so when I got older I would go to bars and play for money. Dudes were never willing to believe a teenage girl could beat them."
Intrigued, Weller tilted his head. "What if they refused to pay up afterwards?"
"Then I showed them another way that a teenage girl could beat them," she said, her grin sharp, and he grinned in response, not doubting her for a second.
"So what now?" Reade asked, glancing briefly at him and Remi before lifting a brow at Lopez. "You guys wanting to challenge the victors, or?"
Lopez grinned, reaching up a little to clap his roommate on the shoulder. "Nah, I think we're pretty good with our bronze medal status, eh Hauser?"
Seemingly satisfied with the faint nod he got in response, Lopez rubbed his hands together, eyes eager as he glanced around. "We could play something else, though? How about some table tennis?"
"Not a chance in hell," Zapata drawled, lip curling in distaste.
"What, afraid to play something that you're not guaranteed to win at?" Lopez threw back, his words carrying a devious edge, and Weller could see the way he had practically lit up at the opening she'd given him, somehow getting a sense that this was a man who loved nothing more than being cut down by powerful women.
And of course, Zapata didn't disappoint.
"Oh, I would still beat you," she said confidently, crossing her arms over her chest. "And your buddy too. I just see no point in playing an even less satisfying version of an already overrated sport."
That actually seemed to throw Lopez off, his tone immediately morphing from flirtatious to somewhat perplexed. "What? How is tennis overrated? It's the sport of kings."
"Oh no, now you've done it," Reade muttered, giving a slow shake of his head, and behind him Weller could practically see Remi mentally calculating just how much longer she'd have to wait before she could remove herself from this situation and be free of all this pointless socializing.
"Firstly, the sport of kings is horse racing, which is also a bullshit excuse for a sport, but that's a topic for another day," Zapata answered hotly, pointing a finger at Lopez's chest. "Tennis is the sport of boring elitists who miss the entire point of sport, which is community, not just competition. Football is a real sport. Baseball is a real sport. Tennis is a masterclass in how to take incredible athletic skill and make it as soulless as possible. Literally the only redeeming thing about tennis is the Williams sisters."
"Plus, table tennis wouldn't really work with six of us," Reade cut in suddenly, interrupting what was clearly a familiar topic. "What about darts? Then we can all play."
"I don't know, it might be a little too competitive for Zamora," Lopez teased, looking over at her with the kind of smirk that spoke of a definite death wish.
"Just for that, I'm in," she retorted, then cocked her jaw. "Better watch where you stand, Lopez. I'd hate for one of my darts to go wide."
Unsurprisingly, Lopez simply laughed, then looked over at Hauser. "We'll play. How many rounds?"
Reade glanced at his watch, then back at the others. "Let's start with three?"
Hanging back a little as they all moved over to the pockmarked dart board, Weller took the opportunity to fall into step beside Remi, feeling the backs of her fingers brush lightly against his for half a second before they separated again, finding places at opposite sides of the group.
"Let's all use the same darts," Zapata said, shooting a pointed look at Lopez as she scooped one set off of the shelf. "That way no one can blame the equipment when they lose."
"Works for me," he answered with an easy shrug, and that seemed answer enough for Zapata, who rejoined them all by the scuffed and peeling yellow line which marked the throwing position.
"How are we deciding the playing order?" Weller asked, looking between Zapata and Lopez.
"Seems like Zamora should start us off," Lopez said, and surprisingly there wasn't even a trace of innuendo in his tone. "So then maybe... backwards alphabetically from there?"
No one voiced any objections, so Lopez clapped his hands together, his eyes bright.
"Alright then, Zamora. Let's see what you got."
Silently relieved that Lopez hadn't suggested any more question games to accompany the darts— he'd spent the entire game of pool fearing that they'd ask him about his relationship status, but to his relief, they hadn't seemed at all interested in finding out— Weller shifted out of the way as Zapata squared up to the line on the floor, her eyes fixed on the dartboard. When the first dart thunked into the space under the 12, Lopez let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.
"Oh thank god, I thought we were all gonna get our asses whooped again," he said with a laugh. "Looks like I might actually stand a chance this time."
"I'd wait til the end of the round before you go getting too comfortable," Reade warned as Zapata threw her next dart, scoring a 7.
"Oh man, don't tell me you're some kind of darts pro," Lopez groaned, and Zapata scoffed slightly as she took her third throw, landing on 15.
"Me? Hell no, my throwing skills are limited to footballs," Reade said, then lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. "But I'm just saying, you never know."
Zapata's final toss landed on a 2, and she grimaced before going to collect the darts from the board.
Surprisingly, there was no wisecrack from Lopez about her fairly average score; maybe he had a little more of a sense of self-preservation than Weller had previously thought, or maybe he just wasn't the type to gloat. Either way, it earned him just a little more respect in Weller's book.
Stepping up to accept the darts from Zapata, Weller steadied himself, eyes on the bullseye. The first dart hit just within the boundary for the 20, the wire slightly pushed to the side by the dart's metal point.
Lopez whooped. "Oh, so is this what Reeves was warning me about?"
"Nah, that was beginner's luck," Weller said. "Watch me never hit it again."
He was right; his other three shots ended up on random numbers, all fairly close to the middle, but none close enough to make it into even the outer ring of the bullseye.
After doing a few joking stretches, Reade took his place, brow creased in mock-focus. After the first few tosses, it was clear he hadn't lied about his skills; a fact which became all the more clear as his final throw hit the board and bounced off, embedding itself point-down in the linoleum.
"Man, good thing you shoot better than you throw," Lopez teased good-naturedly, eyes comically wide as he held out a hand for the darts.
"Yeah, yeah. Let's see what you can do, then," Reade said dryly, dropping them into his waiting palm.
"Get ready, y'all," Lopez said, tossing a wink over his shoulder at Zapata before lining up his aim and taking his first shot.
To his credit, he was actually pretty good, with his darts actually seeming to end up close to where he intended them to, though sometimes not quite close enough. He didn't crow over it though, just plucked the darts from the board and held them out to Hauser with a playful grin.
"Alright, Hauser, time to show us all up."
Weller found himself watching with interest as Hauser stepped up; unlike the rest of them, who had held the plastic shaft of the dart in the typical way, Hauser held it by its metal tip, his throws more from the wrist than the elbow. As he silently took his shots, it was clear he had a good eye, and he was the first to hit the outer ring of the bullseye, putting him easily in the lead.
Unsurprisingly, he didn't really give any outward response, just went and retrieved the darts while Lopez celebrated on his behalf, cheering as if he himself had made the shot.
Then, finally, it was Remi's turn.
She shot him a subtle glance as she moved past to collect the darts from Hauser, and Weller held back a grin, preparing to see her utterly annihilate the rest of them.
Standing at the line with her right foot slightly in front of her left, she gripped the dart by the point like Hauser had— then, shoulders relaxed, she threw all four darts in quick succession, not pausing to carefully aim each time like the rest of them had.
Instead of a cluster of four darts in the bullseye like he'd expected, though, her darts were spread across the top half of the board, seemingly random.
"Woah, Briggs, don't tell me we've actually found something you're not good at?" Zapata exclaimed in mock disbelief, her eyes bright with mischief.
"Hey, c'mon, she did no worse than the rest of us," Lopez said earnestly, then looked over at Remi. "We're all still warming up, aren't we, Briggs?"
Weller did his best to ignore that; for all his flirty attitude, Lopez actually seemed like a decent guy, and Remi had made it crystal clear just how little interest she had in him. Still, his over-friendliness was something Weller would really rather that neither of them had to deal with.
Especially because there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.
For her part, Remi paid no attention to Zapata's teasing comment or Lopez's words of encouragement, instead just took her time strolling over to retrieve the darts, ensuring he had a clear view as she pulled them out one by one.
18. 5. 13. 9.
Frowning slightly, he repeated the numbers over and over in his head; there was no way they weren't deliberate. Not when it came to her.
And then, finally, it clicked.
18-5-13-9.
R-E-M-I.
Alright, now she was just showing off.
Clearly having seen something change in his expression, she pressed her lips together in that familiar way that told him she was holding back a smirk, silently moving past him again to clear the way for Zapata.
Shaking his head a little, he made himself watch Zapata's attempts, her score coming out noticeably better this round.
"Watch out, Hauser," Lopez said with a grin. "She's coming for you."
"Hey, don't rule the rest of us out of the running just yet," Reade argued, but there was a laugh in his voice as he said it, clearly aware that he didn't stand a chance.
"Mm, you can probably go ahead and rule me out," Weller said easily, a smile tugging at his lips as Zapata handed over the darts. Unlike the others, he now had a completely different aim in this game, and his score definitely reflected it.
Giving a low whistle at his less-than-impressive effort, Lopez punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Giving up already, Weller?"
"Nope," he answered, passing the darts on to Reade. "But nothing wrong with knowing when you're outmatched."
"Alright, so what's your thing then? What would you kick all of our butts at?"
Even Reade paused at that, turning back from the board to hear the answer.
Weller chuckled. "Among this group? Probably nothing. I do make a mean scrambled eggs though."
Moving past Lopez, he saw the shadow of a frown on Remi's face before she seemed to catch herself, her expression going smooth and blank as her eyes fixed on the dartboard. Forcing himself to turn away, he listened to the condolences Reade was receiving for his terrible throws— Lopez's far more sincere than Zapata's, whose enjoyment of the whole situation was pretty hard to miss. Hauser, as usual, said nothing, except for a quiet thanks when Reade handed over the darts.
Hauser was clearly still trying for the bullseye— well, they all had been, but he was the only one that seemed to be anywhere close to achieving it— and on his last throw of the set, he made it, his head ducking a little as Lopez whooped and slapped him on the back, and Weller, Reade, and Zapata clapped, Zapata even adding in a little whistle. Remi didn't react, but when Hauser gathered the darts and gave them to her, she gave him a small nod of respect.
"Alright, Briggs," Lopez said eagerly, shifting a little closer. "Let's see if you can beat that!"
They all watched as she stepped up to the line, though his interest certainly had a different focus than the others. He'd already spent the whole round trying to figure out what she might spell next— they only had four darts, so 'Briggs' was out, but there were plenty of four-letter words out there that he could imagine her choosing, most of which would not be appropriate for the ears of children.
Just like last time, all four darts found their marks quickly, her score almost at low as Reade's had been.
14. Two 5's, then a 4.
Ignoring whatever the others were saying to Remi about it, he swiftly translated the numbers, putting them together to get...
NEED.
He hadn't expected that. Honestly, he'd been half sure that he'd been about to see the word 'hate' spelled out on the board— her subtle rebellion against being forced to take part in something that she would likely consider both useless and ridiculous— but she clearly had something else in mind.
What, though? What did Remi need?
Impatient now, he stayed quiet as the others bantered back and forth through the final round, barely even noticing where his own throws landed, let alone anyone else's. Finally, Hauser finished his throws— probably cementing his win, based on the others' reactions— but Weller didn't care enough to check, too busy readying himself for Remi's turn, positioning himself where he could see the board clearly.
Thankfully, he didn't have long to wait. Only moments after she stepped up to the line, all four darts had found their positions on the board, and she was moving forward to collect them.
11. Triple 7. 18. 20.
Distantly, he heard the others cheer for her relatively high score, found himself clapping along reflexively even as his mind raced, converting numbers to letters.
Triple 7 was 21, which meant the letter U, so all together that spelled...
KURT.
Reeling, he sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body going still as he stared at her.
Remi need Kurt.
As she turned from the board with the darts in hand, her eyes met his for just the briefest of seconds, the connection over all too soon as she shifted her gaze to Zapata, passing the darts back. Only a moment later, though, she was stepping through the gap between him and Hauser, her little finger curling around his and squeezing before slipping away again almost immediately, the tiny movement hidden from view by the angle of their bodies.
Even after she passed him, though, he could feel her there behind him, could feel the tightness in his chest, the lump in his throat.
God, she really was his, just as he was hers. He would never get over that knowledge, would never understand how he had gotten to be that lucky.
"Hey, it's not that late yet, you guys wanna do another round?" Lopez asked, his voice breaking through Weller's reverie and pulling him back to the present.
Looking around, he saw Reade and Zapata glance at each other, then shrug, Zapata speaking for both of them. "Sure. You guys in?"
For a second Weller thought about refusing, about making up some kind of excuse to get back to the room, where he could pull Remi into his arms and not have to care about who might see.
But then, to his surprise, she made the decision for him, giving a one sided shrug that Zapata clearly took for agreement.
"Alright, let's do this, then," Zapata said, stepping up to the line— and though most of her throws ended up scattered across the board, she actually managed to land one in the ring around the bullseye, turning to take a bow as the rest of them clapped or cheered. Even Remi favored her with a couple of half-hearted claps, though he suspected she may have rolled her eyes as she did so.
For his turn, he attempted to spell out Remi's name— and failed miserably, his shots all landing on random numbers, though a couple did end up almost kind of close to the intended mark.
Reade, true to form, was worse; he actually managed to bury a dart in the wall below the board, though given that it was already pricked with dozens of tiny holes, he clearly hadn't been the first.
Lopez didn't fare much better, one of his shots just glancing off the wire border and falling to the floor.
As Hauser stepped up for his turn, Weller jogged the few steps over to where he'd left his gym bag by the back of one of the couches, grabbing out his water bottle. He'd been doing his best to take part in the conversation and comments tossed around during the round, but hopefully if he was busy drinking during Remi's set, no one would try to talk to him and he'd be able to calculate her message without any distractions.
He was desperately curious to see what she would add with this bonus round— would she pick a random word, or continue the sentence? Stupidly, he found himself wishing that the words always or forever didn't have so many letters, not he could imagine her ever choosing those anyway.
But hell, he could still dream.
As she passed him, he almost thought he saw a hint of a smirk on her face, but it had been so subtle that he couldn't be sure. Eyes fixed on her right hand, he took another swig from his water bottle, watching all four darts fly rapidly at the board, landing in a quick staccato.
That last one was an 11, so that was a K. First and third were 3's, so those were both C's. So that left 15 for the second letter, making it—
Oh.
Abruptly choking on his water, Weller went into a coughing fit, bending almost double as he tried to clear the water from his lungs.
"You right there, buddy?" asked Lopez, stepping over to smack him firmly on the back. "Went down the wrong pipe, huh?"
Eyes watering, Weller nodded and straightened, working to recover himself.
They were all turned towards him, looking at him with concern— including Remi, whose expression mirrored theirs, even as he saw the wicked gleam in her eye.
"Maybe we should call it quits anyway," Reade said, looking from Weller to his watch and back again. "I've still got some study to do tonight, and Monday mornings are bad enough without throwing sleep deprivation into the mix."
"What about one more lightning round, and whoever gets the highest score wins?" Lopez suggested hopefully, turning away from Weller now that he seemed reassured that he wasn't about to choke to death.
"C'mon, you just wanna try to steal the win," Zapata teased, arching a brow at him.
"Hey, it's still anyone's game," he answered, but his grin proved her right.
Zapata turned to Hauser. "Well, the win was yours, so it's up to you."
Hauser shrugged slightly, looking at the board. "I don't mind."
That was all the permission Lopez needed. "Alright, sudden death it is!"
And as it turned out, by the time there was only Remi left to take her turn, Lopez did in fact have the lead, thanks to a couple of high throws and an extremely lucky bullseye.
As she stepped up, Lopez made sure to remind her of his score, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Think you can beat that, Briggs?"
She gave a small nod, clearly unbothered by his confidence. "I know I can."
Still wearing that slightly irritating grin, Lopez crossed his arms over his chest. "Ten bucks says you can't."
At that, Weller saw Remi turn to look at Zapata for a moment, her voice dry. "Make it twenty."
"Done," he said, winking at her. "I hope you're ready to pay up."
Turning her back on him without a word, Remi stepped up to the line, and then with four swift flicks of her wrist had sent each dart to its mark.
Finally, here was the cluster Weller had expected from the start, though not in the bullseye like he'd imagined; instead, all four were neatly grouped within the small rectangular space of the Triple 20, giving her a literally unbeatable score of 240.
"Should have known that was coming," Zapata said with a sigh, shaking her head.
"Great throwing," said Hauser sincerely, impressed but not seeming at all surprised.
"Note to self: never bet against Briggs ever again," Lopez said with a wry grin, then gave her a small, playful bow. "You'll receive your payment in full tomorrow morning."
"Well, now that we've all had a thorough lesson in getting our asses whooped, time to go study our actual classes," Reade said, and the others chuckled.
Together, they collected all their gym gear, laughing and joking as they headed back to the dormitories. At the door to their room, Hauser and Lopez both paused, the former giving them all a nod in goodbye while the latter grinned and threw Remi a crisp salute, for once surprisingly refraining from making any inappropriate comments.
Reaching their own rooms, the two pairs parted with friendly goodnights, as if they wouldn't be seeing any more of each other until breakfast.
Once in his room, Weller immediately went and dropped his gym gear on his bed, then looked at Reade.
"If you need the bathroom, now's the time to say it."
Reade chuckled, already turning away to unpack his gym bag. "Go right ahead."
Striding straight through the bathroom, Weller cracked open the door on their side, his voice quiet but clear. "May I speak to Remi, please?"
"Oooh, somebody's in trouble," Zapata teased, singsonging the words. Then, a second later, he heard her huff the word 'rude' and knew Remi had likely just flipped her off.
The grin was still on his face a moment later when Remi joined him in the bathroom, but it quickly fell away as he pulled the door firmly closed behind her.
"Jesus, Remi. Were you trying to kill me?"
"I had to make the game more interesting somehow," she smirked, leaning back against the wall and folding her arms, totally at ease.
God, he wanted to kiss her so badly. Instead, he shook his head hard. "Remi, this is serious. What if one of the others realized what you were doing?"
"They didn't, Kurt," she said immediately, everything about her softening, her tone turning reassuring. "Zapata suspected something was happening, because she already tried to get me to tell her what it was. Lopez is too focused on himself to even get that far. Hauser could have picked up on it if he was actually paying any attention to anything I was doing, but trust me, he wasn't."
She sounded so sure that he couldn't help but believe her, the tension in his shoulders easing.
"How anyone can keep their eyes off of you is a mystery to me," he said in a low voice, then shifted forward, crowding her back against the wall.
"Contrary to what you seem to think, Weller, I'm not everybody's type," she tossed back, clearly trying to play it cool, but he could hear the sudden breathiness to her voice, could see the way her eyes flicked involuntarily to his mouth before dragging them back up to meet his.
"And I thank god every day for their poor taste," he said simply, seeing the tiny smile that curved her lips right before he leaned in and covered them with his own, feeling her arms instantly shift to snake around his back, pulling him close.
Finally, he drew back just a little, one hand lifting to her cheek. "Do you think Lopez might be a problem?"
She let out a soft snort, her cheek pressing against his palm as she gave a slight shake of her head. "No, I think he got the message."
"Speaking of messages…" he began, his thumb brushing across her lower lip, feeling her breath quicken against his skin. "You need me, huh?"
She'd added that extra word at the end to mess with him, but that didn't mean she hadn't meant what came before it.
She didn't try to deflect, either, her fingers tightening in the back of his shirt as her eyes held his.
"I might."
Suddenly remembering something else she'd said earlier, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. "And you think I'm superior to anyone you've ever met."
"It's possible," she breathed, and he let his fingers drift from her cheek to the side of her neck, feeling her pulse racing in time with his.
"Remi..." he murmured, and then her face was tilting up to his, the kiss soft but needy, and his arm was wrapping around her back, needing her closer, needing her.
Seemingly gripped by the same need, she pressed against him, the kiss growing heated, almost desperate— until suddenly something thudded heavily against the door beside them, making them reflexively jerk apart, both breathing hard.
"Time's up," Zapata called from the other side. "I have another shoe and I'm not afraid to use it."
Letting out a small sigh, Weller shifted his hands to Remi's waist, eyes lowering to meet hers. "Do you think Mayfair gave them orders to be this obstructive?"
She scowled. "I think they just enjoy it."
Unable to hold back his smile, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, breathing her in. "Goodnight, Remi."
For a fleeting second she held him tighter, then let go and stepped away, slipping through the door without looking back.
"What?" he heard Zapata ask innocently as Remi stalked back into the bedroom. "I needed to use the bathroom."
#########
Look let's just be honest here, I am all about these two being complete sappy idiots when it comes to each other. Was this entire chapter completely and utterly ridiculous? Absolutely. Was it worth waiting a year for? Probably not. But did I have fun writing it? Damn straight. So I hope you had fun reading it.
Also yes, Zapata's hatred of tennis is literally just me sharing my own feelings on the subject. And alright, alright, I acknowledge that tennis is in fact actually a very impressive sport, but I will still forever hate it lol. Now don't even get me STARTED on golf haha...
And in case you're wondering (you're probably not) I actually literally did download a picture of a dartboard and place dots on it at the corresponding positions so I could visualise Remi's throws haha. Ideally I would have liked to have 'want' as the second word, but W is 23 and unfortunately you just can't make a 23 on a dartboard...
Anyhow, I hope people enjoyed getting to know Lopez and Hauser a little bit. Lopez initially started off as the character that I ended up naming Jason Bradley, but even before I finished that's character's first scene (where they're doing the fitness testing) I realised that I needed to split him in two, because I wanted THAT character (Aka Jason Bradley) to be an irredeemable slimeball while I wanted Marc Lopez to be a flirty but respectful ladies' man. So I hope that's the way he came across, but I'm open to feedback and tweaking him a little bit.
Well, thanks for reading, and I'll see you all next time, whenever that may be. Hopefully not another year from now.