'Making love.' It's a dumb phrase, something men say to women instead of 'have sex' or 'fuck' so they have a better chance at it, something women accept because it doesn't make them feel slutty. Tim's always hated that saying. It's for the saps and naïve suckers (or dumbass privates who've just gotten hitched to a stripper for the extra deployment pay), and anytime he hears someone say it, they've got blinders on and fallen too deep too fast, and it burns hot as a firework, and the excitement's over just as quickly. Then it's all downhill from there. It's a dumb phrase.
They're still sticky, the sweat only half dry, and he's lying atop her, in her, unwilling to give up the intimacy of it. He's likes it here, and she's happy to keep him. Her fingertips skim in random patterns along his back, and he plants another kiss on her already bruised throat. It's a wonder how she hid anything from her parents in high school when the barest touch leaves such an obvious mark. Lena just laughs at that. She'd endured plenty of teasing. Occasionally it was a tactic for avoiding Sunday dinners at her grandparents' house.
They've spent the time recuperating talking about everything and nothing, filling in the gaps of the last two years, low voices occasionally broken by bouts of laughter or kissing, sometimes both at once.
"Stay," he whispers into her collarbone, lips wandering in an indirect path towards her shoulder, and he doesn't care to examine if he means for the night or a while longer.
She chuckles sleepily, sated. "You've tired me out, Marshal. You're stuck with me tonight." One hand leaves his back to run her thumb along his lips.
He catches it in his teeth, and her eyes light, thighs tightening around his hips. Encouraged, he slides up and forward, testing, hoping to tire her out some more. "It ain't bedtime yet."
"Oh? Well I guess it's a good thing we aren't in a bed then, huh?" They'd made it as far as the couch before his clothes were on the floor; hers hadn't lasted out of the kitchen. His ankle was still caught in a pant-leg when she'd pushed him down and straddled him. Tim hadn't noticed until later, attention entirely caught up by her lips on his and the bare flesh under his hands.
"We could be." He thrusts again, shallow, teasing, a promise of what will happen once they reach his bed, and her breath catches in a moan that dissolves into a chuckle. He likes that she doesn't look away, lets him see what he does to her.
"Well then, Deputy," Lena digs her heels into his ass and rolls her hips, pulling him down and into a kiss that lasts longer than intended. The devil himself could not conjure more mischief into a grin, "I guess you'd better take me to bed."
He means to do just that, but her teeth pulling on his earlobe and her hands squeezing his ass encourage him to stay right where he is, and she takes him on the couch again for a second time that evening; the bed can wait.
However much Lena holds herself physically apart in public, she's insatiable in private. When he does get his ankle out of his pants and her up to his bed, she drapes herself over him like a warm human blanket with his shoulder as her pillow and an ankle hooked around the back of his knee.
Tim slides his hand down to find hers and he lifts it up, kisses each finger one by one.
"I hadn't taken you for a romantic." She smiles playfully and pokes him in the lips. He bites down on the offending digit, preventing it from further misbehavior. She likes it when he does that.
"What did you take me for?"
"Well," she shifts against him, suggestive-like, "I think I've taken quite a lot of you this evening."
He bites down a little harder on the finger in his mouth, and she yelps and digs her free fingers into his ribs looking for a ticklish spot. Her strategy works, and Lena pokes him in the mouth once more as victory lap.
"You ever been to D.C.?" she asks.
"Just once." He kisses her before she can ask how he liked it. The only part he saw was gravestones.
"You ever been to Little Serow? Thai place down on seventeenth street?" Tim looks up at her, feeling the quicksand pulling at his ankles. He doesn't want to think about her and D.C. either.
"No."
"I could take you sometime." He slips a hand back down below the sheets, knows he's found the mark when she shivers. "Is that a yes?"
"Is it spicy?"
"I saw a kid cry once."
"I guess I could give it a shot." The hand under the sheets moves with more purpose.
"Our flight's at 8 a.m. you know." She tries for accusing, can't pull it off.
He doesn't stop, intent on coaxing her into round three. "So sleep on the plane."
o.O.o
Lena leans on the horn. She did not miss the traffic. Or the speed limits. The cops who feel the need to enforce the speed limits. The jackhole in front of her actually going the speed limit. Lena continues complaining inwardly to herself about all the petty unimportant things that bother her about D.C. She keeps her eyes on the road and off the rearview reflection of a pair of very perfect, very talented lips that belong to a very handsome deputy marshal who's sitting next to her very in-danger witness. Very in-danger witness. Lena latches onto that and holds it like a shield between her and the rearview mirror.
Dave and Suki are in the dark SUV behind them, and even though it's a short drive with tight security, Lena takes the long route with all the extra twists and turns to make sure no one's following. For giggles Suki had arranged for them to take a few British consulate vehicles with diplomatic plates and the little flags on them just to muddy the scent. Whether that worked or they were lucky, their little convoy didn't seem to have attracted any unwanted followers. After a quick stop at the embassy to change cars they continue the meandering, switchback route to the safe house.
While it might be against protocol and traditional common sense, they're using Lena's house.
"Oh, but that's why it's perfect." Lena reminded John that that was what she thought about keeping Sayeed in Kentucky in the first place, and look how that turned out. "Seems like it turned out just fine though, hm? And you have gates and alarm systems and neighbors who don't like outsiders. What are they going to do? Invade fucking McLean? No one can poison your food and hide a gun in the room service cart. Didn't you ever see The Boondock Saints? Hotels are not safe." "What about the rooms at work? What are they going to do? Invade effing Langley?" "No, but they'll be watching it, which is why we already have a convincing decoy set up there." She'll just keep everyone in the basement where there aren't any windows. Or she'll do whatever the marshals and Dave and Suki tell her to do and deal with everyone tromping through her house with their shoes on like an invading barbarian horde.
When they arrive, the long curving driveway is already packed with cars. Part two of John's Spectacular Grand Plan involves the team putting on the charade of a house party. This, Lena agrees, is at least useful for gathering everyone in one place for the meeting, though it's surreal seeing everyone dressed up like the Stepfords.
Really surreal. "Holy crap, Oona, are you wearing a dress?"
Oona bypasses Lena completely – okay, great, missed you too, sweetheart – and makes straight for Tim.
"Are you that Ranger-marshal?" Finger in his face and everything. Fudge, she probably looked up his driver's license photo. Tim has to crane his head up to look at her. Oona's six-one Amazonian Swedish frame in five inch heels is a sight to behold. It would be hilarious if Lena didn't mind her private business being dragged out into public and especially in front of all her colleagues. "I'm going to warn you right now –"
Tim's face shuffles between bewildered and amused; Lena's is settled firmly into mortification. "Oona, I got your reports." Her angry Swedish assistant-cum-father-with-a-shotgun is one and a half times her size, and dragging her away from Tim and towards the house is a Herculean effort. She fleetingly wonders why the Ducati is in the driveway rather than the garage, but curiosity takes a back seat to more pressing issues. "Really thorough, thank you. Nope, keep walking. Nice dress by the way."
"Shut up."
"I'm being entirely serious."
"Can it."
Everyone trundles into the house behind Lena, Dave and Suki and then Sayeed with his back covered by Tim and Raylan, more security, and the rest. She takes the first familiar breath of home – pine and mint – and is just starting to sink into the cocoon of safe, the weight of the mission and the drive beginning to dissolve, but then she trips over a pair of motorcycle boots, and then there's panic, but it's a different sort, and before she can say anything to the people behind her, a slap-happy voice that has never learned not to talk with its mouth full comes from the kitchen and into the hallway carrying a jar of peanut butter and a spoon.
"Lena! Dude! You'll never guess –"
About ten pistols come flying out of their holsters, and the spoon drops with a loud clatter, splattering peanut butter everywhere.
"Whoa!" Lena jumps in front. "It's fine!" She turns around. "James, it's fine!" Back around. "Everyone put down your fucking guns!" They do, and Lena prods herself with a quiet 'fudging guns, fudging."
"Lena?" James' eyes stay locked on the crowd in the entryway, still frozen in place.
"Guys, this is my brother. James, these are some people from work." She reaches out for a potted tree, but it's too small to support her leaning, and she stumbles. "Jesus, I thought you were gone until next month."
With half an eye on the suits with holsters, James reaches for the spoon, swipes at the sticky brown splatters on the tile. Distraction only makes the problem worse, and the splatters become smudges. "Surprise."
John's calmer, more pragmatic voice chimes in behind them. "Let's talk about this little hiccup once everyone's inside, shall we?"
o.O.o
After everyone is stuffed into the basement and quarters are assigned to those who will be staying overnight, Tim decides to prowl around the kitchen. His and Raylan's part of the meeting is over. They won't be needed for anything aside from guard duty, and the rest is above their clearance. He thought about prowling around the rest of the house – Raylan is probably trying to find a way into the garage – and stood a good five minutes staring down a hallway before deciding his motivations were less than professional and slunk into the kitchen.
"Hey." Lena's brother looks up from his phone and more closely at Tim than he's used to being looked at by another guy. "You armed still?"
"Yup." With the basketball shorts and color-coordinated sneakers the dude looks like a wannabe fitness model who spends all his time at the gym and whose only conversational topics are what protein supplements he's taking and how much he can bench. He's also at least six-five and the most ginger-ass motherfucker Tim has ever seen, a surprise considering Lena's a short brunette.
"Any chance you'll be not armed at any point in your stay?"
"Nope." Even if he were here for purely non-professional reasons, he'd probably still be armed part of the time or at least have a gun within reach.
"Have you ever accidentally…had an accident?"
Tim crosses his arms and only half-tries to repress the smirk trying to crawl out. "An accident," he deadpans, feigning ignorance.
"Yeah, like you miss and accidentally shoot the wrong person or whatever?"
The smirk succeeds in its quest for escape. "I don't miss."
James opens his mouth, a knee-jerk response of disbelief on the tip of his tongue, but he reverses direction with a slight head movement. "Are you Tim Gutterson?"
James straightens, leaning forward, and Tim gets the impression that James-the-ginger-ass-wannabe-fitness-model-who's-scared-of-guns has transitioned into James-Lena's-brother. It's not even a little intimidating, but the look of appraisal he gets raises Tim's hackles. He can't stand pissing contests. Yeah, I had sex with your sister. Three times. And she liked it. And maybe if everyone makes themselves scarce enough I'll have sex with her again right here on this giant ass kitchen counter where you'll be eating your breakfast tomorrow. "Yup."
If he hadn't seen it coming from the front his first reaction would have been violent. As it is, it's still startling as shit when James comes around the center island and sweeps him into a bear hug. His toes spend a second dangling in space. "Thanks, man." Tim barely has time to wonder what the fuck? before he carries on with, "You hungry? Actually, no. Fuck it. I'm making you dinner." The pale muscular arm still around Tim's shoulders pulls him over to a barstool. "Do you like Italian?"
"Uh, yeah." He's still got whiplash.
"Fish? Actually, no, you're military; you need something hearty." Tim lets James continue their conversation alone. It's been hours since he's eaten, and frankly that jar of peanut butter would satisfy just fine right now. "You're gonna love this." James whips open the fridge door, and Tim can hear drawers opening and closing. His head comes back out for a moment and he waves a package of something in Tim's direction. "You know what? I'm gonna make you…no, that'll take too long…" more rifling, "veal alla Saltimbocca, but not veal – we don't do that in this house – but no worries; it's going to be awesome. But for now," James throws a pile of ingredients on the counter, tears open a few of cheese and sets them on a plate in front of Tim along with some bread and a pretentiously ornate blunted knife. "This one's brigantaggio, and this is caprotto fiorito."
The basketball shorts had said spaghetti and meatballs from a jar. If the cheese is anything to go by, the veal-but-not-veal alla Saltimboca is going to be sex on a plate.
"Hehehe, you thought I was gonna kick your ass and bust out the shotgun, huh?"
"I was expecting you to try." James hears the distinction, the slight drawl on the last word.
"Nah, it's her 'work friends' you gotta watch out for."
"Yeah, I've met Xena Warrior Princess."
He watches Tim scoop cheese onto a piece of bread. "Seriously, thanks for keeping her safe."
It's weird to hear from a stranger, and because bright light casts equally dark shadows, it's also a harsh reminder of the opposite tally on his board. There are others who are not strangers that will never thank him. He deflects the way he always does. "Woulda been easier if she hadn't insisted on dressing like Malibu Barbie."
"She did say you were kind of a nag."
"She also said the torture spikes on her feet were shoes, so you can't believe everything you hear."
"You really let her fire a Howitzer after asking her if she was pms-ing?"
"Yup."
"Then I'll believe anything." James shakes the knife he's slicing beef with at Tim. "Just don't go giving her a real gun."
o.O.o
The good news is that GenCorp is going to burn, and Lena will gleefully dance through the cinders. The bad news is that there's nothing but the thinnest circumstantial evidence tying Chivera to any of this, and she hasn't the barest shred what Senator Stratford's interest is. He has no connection to GenCorp or Chivera either socially, politically, or business-related. And yet he has a clear interest in mucking about with Sayeed's hearing. Three days. The hardest part will be done in three days. Sayeed will testify, and at least one chunk of the feckless fucks responsible for this will be prison-bound, and then she can go about getting the rest. For now she has Dave and Suki's team and the marshals crawling over her house and yard. And James is under house arrest. 'Why, dear sister?' 'Oh sorry, dear brother, can't tell you.' That's going to go over real well. He still thinks she works at the State Department.
Lena drags herself up the basement stairs wondering if she should try to get him drunk before or after delivering the news. Crap, the first floor smells like sizzling meat and heaven. Oh lord, he's cooking for her. The guilt just keeps piling on. Lena does a quick about face at the top of the stairs and goes back down to the basement and digs for a good bottle of wine to pacify him with.
She's busy rehearsing explanations in her head, trying to parse together something that will make some sense and almost misses the second person in the kitchen.
James already has a bottle of wine, and he's sharing it with Tim along with whatever he was cooking.
Well, he's feeding him at least. That's a good sign.
Lena takes a cautious step forward, and James whips his head up, and with the best impression of their grandfather he's done so far, fork aggressively stabbing the air and everything, asks, "Young lady, did you seriously filch weapons from the U.S. army?"