(okay, this is a strong 'T', for language and other things. but 'M' would be misleading... also, 6/9 chapters are written, so expect frequent updates, and then - nothing. *evil laughter*)
Disclaimer: I own DPS - oh, wait, I mean I don't own DPS. whew. good thing we got that sorted.
I'm always up for reviews and reviewing. (You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours...)
"I fucking hate flying," says Charlie, gripping the arm rests and staring straight ahead at the tray table in the upright position in front of him.
"You don't need me to point out the irony of that, do you?" asks Steven. He flips through the in-flight magazine and tries to read an article about viticulture in southern Spain, but the sight of Charlie strangling the end of his seatbelt in his hands is distracting. "Relax," he says kindly, lowering his magazine. "We haven't even taken off yet. What are you so worried about?"
"I'm not – worried," Charlie says, whispering the word. "Do you think I'm worried?"
"No," says Steven.
"Is that what you think? That I'm scared of flying?"
"No," repeats Steven. "I said nothing." He rolls his eyes and disappears back behind his magazine, as Charlie drums his fingers impatiently on his leg.
"I mean I don't know who's flying the plane. One hundred fucking people on this plane, and we haven't even seen the pilot. He could be a twelve year old boy for all we know."
"Yes, but he's probably not," says Steven. "Anyway, they say flying's safer than crossing the road."
Charlie snorts. "Well, that may be true if you live in a – city – that has, like – really bad drivers – " he finishes the sentence lamely as the plane starts rumbling down the runway, slow at first but picking up speed with a rush. As they lift off the ground, Charlie grabs Steven's hand. Hard. For the entire ascent. But Steven doesn't complain, because Charlie needs him. That's just how it is.
The moment the plane is cruising at a comfortable 30 000 feet, however, Charlies leans across to speak low into Steven's ear. "So – you want to go join the mile high club?"
"The seatbelt light is on," says Steven, as if that's his biggest consideration. He flexes his white, bone-crushed fingers. "We're not going anywhere."
"Fine, I'll find a hot stewardess to – actually, they're all hot. Damn."
"Charlie – " Steven's voice falters.
"Yes, my bespectacled pumpkin?"
You were scared half a minute ago. You practically broke my hand. Now you want to bonk an air stewardess.
"Nothing," he says.
There is a soft 'bing' sound overhead and the little red seatbelt light turns off. Charlie winks at Steven, scrambles out of his seat, and heads down the aisle. Steven sighs and looks out the window – but it's dark outside, and with the lights on in the cabin, all Steven can see is a reflection of his own pale, worried face; and then the reflection of an stewardess in a tight blue uniform walking behind.
"Excuse me," he says, pushing past her, and blushing profusely. "Excuse me – sorry – emergency."
Moscow is cold, and the double bed Steven and Charlie have created from the two single beds in the hotel room is even colder. Charlie lies with his back to Steven, breathing deeply. Steven stares at the ceiling, watching the trails of light from the cars outside.
He tries not to think about their future together – tries not to worry about it, because, as the little inspirational quote on his office wall says, 'worry is a misuse of your imagination' – but the rather sloppy high-altitude fuck they had in the toilet cubicle, and the appreciative looks that the flight stewardesses, the token flight steward, the lady at the security desk, and the service staff at the hotel have given Charlie since then, have done nothing to waylay Steven's worry.
"You're thinking, aren't you?"
"No, I'm not." Steven glances at the dark form of Charlie.
"Of course you are. You're awake, and you're not doing anything else, so you must be thinking."
"How did you know I was awake?"
"Because you're talking to me."
"Smartarse," says Steven.
Charlie rolls over. "I told you not to worry about this. It'll be fine."
"So you keep saying."
"Well, aren't I right?" Charlie props himself up on his elbow. Steven doesn't respond, and Charlie sighs. "You need to trust me. We'll sort this."
"Do you have a plan?"
"Do I have a plan?" Charlie snorts. "You're asking if I have a – okay, no. I don't have a plan. I don't need a plan. I'm Nuwanda. So just relax."
Steven doesn't relax. Nuwanda can't keep them together if Nuwanda no longer exists.
"Come here," says Charlie, scooting over the gap in the bed and resting his hand on Steven's chest. He presses his lips to Steven's jaw; then pushes his t-shirt up and marks a trail of kisses down his stomach. Charlie's breath is warm – the only warm thing in the room – until his hands find their way to Steven's hips, and he starts tugging at the waistband of Steven's pyjama pants. Steven's breath hitches in his throat, and he wonders if he'll let Charlie solve all their problems with sex (and if that might not actually be such a bad idea) – but then he catches Charlie's face in his hands and pulls him away.
"We can't just – "
"Just what?" Charlie looks up, his voice rough and laden in the dark.
"This isn't really – it's not – "
"Steven."
Steven sighs. "It's not a plan, Charlie."
Charlie is incredulous, eyebrow raised and smirking. "You don't want this?"
Steven doesn't answer. Charlie waits, until the silence fills Steven's lungs and he can't say anything, even if he had something to say.
"Fine" Charlie grumbles. He rolls back onto his own bed, and pulls the blanket up over his shoulders. "Relax yourself. Goodnight."
The Top Secret Federal Bureau of Investigation Office in Moscow turns out to be a slim, not particularly difficult to find building tucked between an impressive pre-war bank and an overcrowded post-war apartment block.
"This is it?" Steven asks dubiously, scrunching his nose as he looks at the grey impassive façade.
"It's the address stated in the letter," Charlie shrugs. "What did you expect? Security guards and robotic dogs? Barbed wire and secret-service men in black overcoats?"
"Something like that," says Steven. An icy wind blows right through his own overcoat, and he crosses his arms fiercely about his chest.
"Come on," says Charlie, bounding up the steps. "Let's get our license."
In the foyer of the grey building they approach the secretary behind the desk; she doesn't speak English and waves her hands non-committedly as she talks very quickly, then raises her eyebrows and frowns.
"Uh, here – " Steven fishes the letter out of his overcoat pocket, and smooths it out on the desk.
"Ahh – you are Nuwanda?" Suddenly the secretary is all smiles and batted eyelashes, as she escorts Steven and Charlie in the elevator to the sixth floor. She gestures at a couple of chairs in a long hallway, before winking at Charlie and giving him a long look. Finally she leaves.
Charlie grins at Steven, who can't help but sulk as he sits in one of the chairs. Charlie paces the hallway, peering at old photographs that line the walls and stopping to use the archaic drink fountain.
"I really thought this would be more difficult," says Steven.
"What?"
"More difficult. There must be a catch somewhere."
"Why would you think that?"
"Well, for one – because things usually are more difficult when they involve you, Charlie. There's always a twist."
"We had dry toast and a liqueur made of brake fluid for breakfast this morning because we couldn't understand the menu. Is that not difficult enough?"
Just then the door at the end of the hallway opens, and a short man in a well-tailored suit appears.
"Come through, if you please," he says. He has a slight accent, that is pleasing to the ear – soft and neat, like his appearance.
Charlie claps Steven on the back and gives him an 'I am so right about this' look, and saunters through the doorway. Steven sighs and follows him.
They're in an office. It is large but sparsely furnished, save for an enormous polished wooden desk devoid of all clutter (which Steven notices, appreciatively) that takes up half the room; and a tall-backed black leather chair behind the desk. The chair is facing the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks lower Moscow. It is snowing outside.
The man in the grey suit approaches the desk, and coughs softly. "Mr Steven Meeks and Mr Charles Dalton to see you, sir."
Charlie shifts his weight to one foot and sticks his hands in his pockets, jauntily. "Just call me Char – "
"Charlie. Yes." The chair swivels around.
Charlie splutters; Steven whistles softly. This may be more difficult than either of them ever imagined.