A/N: Hehe.
That's all.
Enjoy :)
Elizabeth | Post-Extraction – 181 Hours
She sunk down into the tub carefully, her foot propped up on the outside of the porcelain ledge as she situated her body into the hot water. It lapped against her bare skin, splashing around her chest and up to her knees before she bent the other leg and sunk her foot down flat against the bottom of the bathtub.
Finally, she tilted her head back and let it rest against the wall, closing her eyes and feeling the ache in her body. All the usual places were screaming—her back, her ribs, and even her foot—but the screams were nowhere near as loud as they were before the pain medicine. And for that, she was grateful to Rawlins, and maybe even trusted him a little more because of it.
The heat seeped into her muscles as she tried to relax, letting her arms float next to her body and trying to make herself to breathe deeply. She just started to feel somewhat relaxed when she heard footsteps going past the door—down the hall from the bedroom and into the living area. Henry had taken his boots off upon arrival, but his footsteps were still so noticeable. After all, he was a man who took charge.
She bit down on her lip when her brain turned so quickly back to that thought, her fingers finding her hipbones and resting there as she made herself think about other things.
At least the weather has been nice.
I wonder how long Rawlins has had that mustache.
I wonder if he had the mustache when he was Henry's superior.
I bet Henry is superior.
She squeezed her eyes and wrinkled her face up before popping them open again, holding back a growl that was wanting to rise from her ribs. She settled for a more quiet, deep grunt instead. Her hands splayed across her hips now as she tried to think, once more, of other thoughts than Henry.
The warm water and its steam was so intoxicating, though, and she felt like she could've been drunk. Maybe it was the medicine, too, but she felt…toasty. She brought her hand up from her hip and fanned her face a few times, huffing when she realized that it would be doing absolutely no good. Frustrated, she rolled her eyes and laid her hand back down on her hip, her fingers tracing the line left from her underwear where her leg meets her torso.
Before she could stop herself, she found mind had streamed back to thinking about the way he'd grabbed her hip in the hospital the other day to keep her from falling. She was so unsteady on the crutches the first few days especially, and she wasn't much better still.
Her right hand moved up a few inches from her hipbone, resting in the curve of her waist as she closed her eyes and thought about the way he held her whenever she was in his arms. His arm was wrapped around her back, always, but his hand was almost always touching her waist there, too. His other arm was much farther down, supporting her legs just behind her knees.
She let her head fall to the side a few inches as she thought about the way she leans against him whenever she's practically flopping in his arms, being carried over thresholds and into vehicles.
What a lucky guy that would make me.
Henry's voice played through her head and her eyes popped open at the same time she bit down on her lower lip. The way he looked at her when she'd said that stupid line about being carried over thresholds in other countries, and how his eyes focused in on hers like a hawk…
Her breath hitched when she realized her hand was cupping her breast, and she squeezed gently before letting her head fall backwards again. It hit the wall with a thud and she let out a groan that she'd been holding in before anyway, now simply unable to keep it in.
"Are you alright?" Henry immediately asked, and she froze with her hand in its place, staring at the faucet in front of her.
"I'm fine," she said, panicking and adding, "I just…my cast slipped a little." She cringed at that—it was such a terrible lie for anyone, let alone a CIA spy.
"It's not wet, is it?"
She slipped her tongue between her lips and bit down on it, her breath holding in her lungs as she thought carefully about her answer.
It's wet, alright.
"No," she replied, swallowing hard and grazing her thumb over her nipple, arching her back into her own touch.
It's only been…God, how long has it been? She tried to think of the last time she'd even had sex, and it had definitely been when she and her college boyfriend broke up during senior year. During her op, she hadn't been in the mood much even to do what she was doing in that tub, so needless to say—she was touch starved.
She closed her eyes again and tried to think of anything—or rather, anyone—other than Henry. Somewhere in the logical part of her mind, she knew that it was dangerous to even be thinking about him like this, in this way. She knew what trauma did to people's brains, but she couldn't out-logic herself when her hand was sliding down between her legs while her other one continued its massaging.
Imagining his hands—his calloused, strong hands—instead of hers sliding downward, she thought about how it would feel to just tell him to take charge of her.
Would he do that?
If I asked him to, would he do it?
If I reached for him, tugged him closer, let him know exactly how much I wanted him?
The thought sent a shiver through her, despite the steam from the bathwater rising upwards and warming her entire body.
Every limb felt like a loosely-attached wet noodle as she sat on the bed and got herself dressed. She'd hopped down the hallway in a towel before Henry even realized she was out of the tub, and when he heard the door shut, he'd asked if she was finished. She'd let out a strangled "yeah" before leaning against the door and catching her breath.
I'm finished, alright, she'd thought to herself as she began drying off.
Now, she stood up from the bed on one foot and leaned over, throwing her towel around her hair and tying it up.
On top of feeling like a wet noodle, she felt a bit ashamed of herself—something she hasn't felt post-release in a long time. Maybe not even since she was a teenager.
But Henry, of all people…why'd she have to feel that way toward him? The man who's been tasked with keeping her safe, whether he chose the job or not?
She heard the water running in the bathroom as she sat back down on the bed and sighed. You should be thinking about other things, she told herself once more, making about a thousand and one times, like propping your leg up. She swung her leg around and propped it up on the bed, looking down at her toes for a moment. Or thinking about what the hell you're going to say to Conrad later.
But when she exhaled, the sound of the water was like a ringing in her ears that she couldn't shake, a siren song straight from the water itself. The heat from the bath still had her skin reddened and warmed, as well as the heat from…other activities.
She rubbed her arm and told herself she was just restless—she needed to lock in on the meeting tonight. She was just overwhelmed. That's all it was. You're pathetic, Elizabeth.
But none of that explained why she couldn't shake the idea of Henry in the shower right now.
The way he probably looked while standing under the water, the steam rising up as the drops dripped down his broad shoulders and his chest. It must feel so nice against his shoulders and his rib after carrying her weight, and the weight of this entire situation for the past few days.
She swallowed hard and knew this wasn't just about attraction when she thought about the way he looked at her when he was carrying her into the house this time. It was the way he saw her, really saw her. It was the way he touched her so carefully, so controlled, as though he was holding himself back.
Maybe he is.
She found herself gasping for air and looking around the room, desperately trying to find something to distract her. Then she saw the other towel that Rawlins had left out for them, realizing that she had both of the towels in this bedroom and left Henry without any.
Right away, she pushed up to her one foot again and hopped over to the dresser, swiping the towel off and pausing there for a moment, leaning against the dresser with her hip. She looked down at the terrycloth and squeezed it, feeling the scratchiness in her soft, pruned fingers. It should've grounded her; it should've kept her from floating—hopping—into the bathroom.
"Elizabeth?"
The voice startled her, though she obviously knew it was his.
"It's me," she said, swallowing thick and trying to not look at the shower curtain. But she couldn't help it—her eyes darted to it even though they saw nothing. The bathroom was so small that there was hardly any distance between the door and the shower—she could've easily reached out and touched the curtain if she wanted.
Rather, if she had the nerve to do so.
"I brought you a towel," she finally announced, gripping onto the doorknob so tightly and balancing on one foot as she laid the towel down on the counter.
He peeked around the shower curtain, and she immediately looked over to him and tried to keep her eyes focused on his—not on the shoulder poking around the curtain, too. Two of his fingers curled around the curtain and she noticed them before looking back to his eyes. His gaze flicked over to the towel and then back to her face.
The silence would've felt deafening had her heartbeat not already been bursting through her eardrums.
"Thanks," he said, his voice low and, she thought, a bit huskier than it was prior.
It's from the steam, she told herself, looking down at her foot and swallowing thick. "You're welcome," she said.
Another bout of silence spread through the air as she stared down at her foot—she knew she should've been turning around and leaving, but she couldn't seem to make her leg hop away.
Her head popped up when she heard the shower curtain move, the rings scratching against the rod above his head as he moved it just enough for her to see his chest. She brought her eyes up from the piece of abdomen he was showing, trying to cover the fact that she'd been staring.
When she saw his expression, the way his lips were parted just slightly and the way he was looking at her as though she were the most precious thing in the world, she realized this for what it was: an invitation.
She gripped onto the doorknob and took a shaky, shallow breath though she meant for it to be deep. She heard herself swallow, the pulsing in her ears still loud as she reached out for his arm with a shaky hand, unsure of herself and her motions and even her balance.
But she touched his arm, and that was all it took. He grabbed her wrist gently, stabilizing her as she hopped the little distance to him, and his other hand cupped her cheek as she further steadied her balance by holding his shoulders. The water from his hand dripped down her jaw and her neck, making her shiver as she finally let herself look up into his eyes again.
His thumb brushed over her cheek as he focused in on her, studying her eyes closely while leaning into her just slightly, "Elizabeth…" he whispered.
She parted her lips to gasp for air, trying to ignore the thickness of the steam in this tiny bathroom and the way she already felt like she was being suffocated. Before she could second guess what she'd just gotten herself into, she found herself leaning into him and closing the small gap left.
And her lips touched his, a nervous flutter against his lips before he leaned in, too, as though he was telling her he meant for this to happen—it was no misunderstanding.
She closed her eyes and hoped this wasn't a dream or some pain-medicine-induced fantasy, and she squeezed her fingers into his shoulders. He felt real.
When he let out a deep, rough exhale through his nose—almost like a grunt—she knew this had to be real. He sounded like he'd been holding that in for far too long, and she let out a whimper against his lips that she, too, had been holding in for too long.
His fingers curled underneath her hair, pushing her face gently into his and deepening the kiss. Slowly, his lips moved over hers, teasing and testing the waters until she parted them slightly, giving him the invitation that he so didn't need but had clearly been waiting for. His tongue traced the seam of her mouth before sliding deeper, his thumb gently rubbing over her cheek as his fingers tangled further in her hair.
He was keeping her exactly where he wanted her, and she was melting into his touch.
Letting him take charge.
She let out another sound that was muffled against his lips, and she felt the vibration of her voice reverberate off him. The second she felt that, his other hand was on her cheek, pulling her deeper into him. She hadn't realized it until her chest was wet, but she was squished up against him, feeling the heat of his bare chest against her own.
Her hands slid down his arms slowly and her fingernails traced into his skin on the way back up, steadying herself against him so that she could balance on one leg. When she did that, the groan that came out of him gave her another shiver, and it sent something electric through her. Buzzing all the way from her hips to her stomach, she felt this desperate need in the pit of her stomach again—a need that she thought she'd subdued earlier in this very tub he was standing in now.
He kissed her like they had all the time in the world—like there was no one after either of them, like they hadn't realized they'd seen U.S. crates in that Kuwaiti warehouse with terrorists surrounding them. He kissed her like he wasn't planning on stopping for some silly meeting with the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, like he was memorizing the way she felt against him because it was more important than memorizing the safe houses they could run to when in danger.
And God, she never wanted him to stop.
But then she felt him pulling back just slightly, and though she didn't want him to stop—desperately didn't want that—the reality and shame came crashing down on her when she felt his lips leave hers. She looked at him and realized he was trying to regain some sort of control, and the sound of the rushing water came pouring back into her ears alongside her heartbeat. She hadn't even realized the sound was gone at all while he was kissing her.
Though he'd stopped, she noticed his hand had dropped to her waist, and he was brushing his fingers along the skin just under the edge of her tee and above the band of her pants. She dragged her tongue across her lip to taste him again and her breath hitched, locking eyes with him.
She looked away quickly, letting her eyes fall down to his chest as she gently dragged one of her fingers over the lines in his shoulder, just below his collarbone and down his sternum—tracing the chiseling that the Marines or God-knows-who had given him.
Her tongue paused on her lips. They were toeing a dangerous, dangerous line.
"Henry…" she whispered, unsure where it came from, but it felt like maybe from somewhere deep in her stomach—the same place the burning settled. He inhaled sharply and she looked up into his eyes, and he finally—finally—let go of her hip and took a small step back into the shower. That whisper had snapped him fully back to reality, and she came crashing down with him.
His eyes darkened as he squeezed his jaw, looking away from her. "I should…I should get dressed," he whispered, clearing his throat when it cracked.
He ran a hand down his face like it was a reset for his brain, and she nodded, realizing what they'd just done.
But she still felt the ghost of his mouth on hers, and she desperately wanted to feel the real thing again. "Right," she whispered anyway.
She hopped awkwardly backwards toward the door, then used the counter to help her turn around. Her fingers touched that scratchy terrycloth again and she paused, looking down and swallowing hard. But then she hobbled her way out of the door and shut it behind her, leaning her back against the wall quietly and closing her eyes when she was in the hall.
When she heard a low, throaty groan coming from the bathroom, her eyes flew back open and she bit down on her lip, knowing that he had to be thinking about what just happened just as much as she was.
Henry | Post-Extraction – 181 Hours
When he heard the door latch shut, he leaned against the back of the shower and groaned, trying his best to muffle it with his palm. His other hand was already working on his little problem—big problem. Whatever one might call it. A problem, nonetheless, because he got turned on while kissing the very person he's supposed to be protecting.
He can't be confusing protection and attraction, yet there he stood in the shower while trying to hold back moans and less-than-saintly thoughts about Elizabeth. He realized he didn't even know her last name still, he had just been thinking of her as Elizabeth Morgan even though he clearly knew that was her op last name. He was glad, however, that he still was privy to a piece of her real life—Elizabeth felt so nice on his tongue. Both when he said it, and when he kissed her.
He closed his eyes and let out a breathy exhale at that thought, thinking about the way her lips were so soft even after they'd been cut up and dry this week. It wasn't much longer until he was rinsing off and finishing his shower.
He ripped the shower curtain over to the side in frustration and grabbed for the towel she'd left him. He felt the scratchy material catch on his callouses and he paused, looking down at it as it hung in front of his dripping body. He pushed it to his face and took a deep breath in, hoping to find that it smelled like her, but all he got was a big whiff of laundry soap.
Rawlins' wife must be in charge around here, he thought, pushing the towel over his head and drying his hair, because surely that man doesn't have this nice of taste.
He tried to think about Rawlins and about how he'd found them, trying to understand if his story checked out. But every thought he would think would lead him back to Elizabeth, and he couldn't help but think about her in certain ways all over again.
The way her hair shined.
The way she wrapped her arms around his neck whenever he carried her.
The way she would go a little limp in his arms, a little more each time he picked her up.
The way she felt pressed against his body in that bed last night.
The way she felt pressed against his body on the couch this morning.
The way she lit up when he brought her that nasty chocolate pudding MRE, and the way she sounded genuinely happy when she said he remembered she liked it.
The way she tried to avoid making eye contact whenever he told her he remembered her eating them in the hospital.
The way she tried to pretend like she wasn't looking at his chest, his shoulders maybe, whenever she'd brought him this towel.
The way, too, she tried to pretend that she was just bringing him a towel.
The way she felt pressed into his lips.
The way her mouth felt so warm, so soft.
Before he could stop himself, he found himself moving away from sureties to assumptions.
The way she probably would feel under him.
Or, even better, the way she probably would feel on top of him.
The way she would kiss him good morning and kiss him goodnight, and God, the way she hopefully would just kiss him every chance they got.
He shook his head as he dried off, frustrated with himself for letting his thoughts drift back to her. You may not even have any chances if you don't get you and her both out of this alive, he told himself, angrily drying his legs off and balling the towel up in his hands. He paused after squeezing the towel, annoyed that he was so out of control, and flapped the towel in the air once real sharp before hanging it up.
In all his frustration, he'd forgotten he didn't have clothes in here, so he ripped the towel off the bar again and wrapped it around his lower half, walking out of the bathroom and into the bedroom to get dressed.
Once he got dressed, he walked into the living room to find Elizabeth sitting on the couch and looking through a magazine. "I had to keep my mind busy," she said, a bit of questionable innocence lingering in her voice as she flipped the page and looked at him.
He swallowed thick. My mind was being kept busy, too, he thought, walking into the living room further and sitting on the chair across from her—as far away as he could without sitting in the kitchen.
"We should probably get some rest before Rawlins comes and gets us," he said, reminding them of their conversation before the bath idea had ever been brought up. A bad idea. A terrible idea.
She nodded in apparent agreement, setting the magazine to the side almost immediately and laying down, turning over on her side away from him and facing the back of the couch. Her cast looked squished underneath her other leg, and she looked exceptionally uncomfortable as she reached for the blanket on the back of the couch and spread it over her.
He settled further down into the chair and crossed his hands over his stomach, closing his eyes and trying to sleep, but ultimately just staring at the back of his eyelids for the next few hours while Elizabeth stayed perfectly still and quiet, too.
When he heard a car pull up, he immediately shot his eyes open, thanking God for a reason to stop pretending like he was sleeping. She rolled over, too, and he realized she hadn't been asleep, either.
"Rawlins is here," he said, and she nodded as though she had been sleeping. But he knew she hadn't been—she didn't have the crease between her eyebrows that she got from squinting too hard in her sleep. She'd woken up with it every day in the hospital, and she did this morning, too.
He got up just as Rawlins was coming through the door after unlocking it, "Thought you said you'd be out on the porch," he said, wiping his feet on the inside rug.
Henry sighed and put the hat on that Rawlins had left for him, handing Elizabeth hers, too. "You didn't even give us enough time to get up, let alone outside on the porch." His tone was a bit brusque to be talking to his former major, but he also knew he was just that—a former major, a retired Marine who had been sent by the director of the CIA, apparently, to help them.
Rawlins made a "humph" noise and wiped his feet on the rug again, turning and looking at Elizabeth. Henry also looked over at Elizabeth, and immediately his face felt hot. Rawlins looked back at Henry after peeling his eyes away from an equally blushing Elizabeth. "Well well well," he started, and Henry's eyes shot open wide as he stared at the man with an amused smirk on his face. "Ain't that somethin'." Rawlins rocked back on his heels as Henry crossed his arms defiantly.
"What?" he asked, clenching his jaw and trying to ignore Elizabeth's laser-like stare into the side of his head.
"Nothing," Rawlins answered, shaking his head with a tiny smile, clearly amused. "Didn't think I'd be interrupting something when I walked in, that's all."
"You're not," Elizabeth said, much too quickly. When he looked over at her, her arms were crossed as she balanced on one leg, blinking fast.
Henry closed his eyes, wondering how the hell she ever made it as a spy when she couldn't lie for shit. He already knew her tell—she blinked four times in a row, fast, and if you weren't paying attention, you wouldn't even know. But Henry paid attention. To her, at least.
Rawlins chuckled and brought his fingers up to his mustache, straightening it out as he looked at Elizabeth. "Uh-huh," he said, then turned back to Henry and raised one graying brow. "You, Hank, look like a man who's been thinking real hard about something he shouldn't have been," he said, and then turned back to Elizabeth as Henry's heart was hammering in his chest, "And you?" Rawlins laughed again, shaking his head and jingling the keys in his pocket, "Well you look like a woman who ain't quite finished thinking about it yet," he said, turning toward the door.
Henry felt his ears get hot, too, and spread down to his chest as he almost just followed Rawlins out the door without even thinking about whether Elizabeth needed help. He stopped himself at the doorway, though, and looked back at her as she was hobbling toward them on her crutches. Silently, he held the door open for her and she walked through onto the porch.
She stopped at the steps while Rawlins locked the door behind them, and they both just looked at the steps down. It was only four steps—she probably could make it. At least that's what he was telling himself when Rawlins interrupted him.
"You gonna help her out, Hank, or what?"
He looked back at his ex-major and grimaced, feeling his teeth bite down into his tongue before he looked at Elizabeth, and she shied away. Rawlins just chuckled, infuriating Henry again when the tips of his ears felt hot. He walked past them down the stairs to his car, and Henry finally scooped her up into his arms again when the car door shut.
She carried the crutches in one hand as they walked to the car in total silence, and he loaded her into the backseat and climbed in with her. He couldn't help but notice how stiff her body felt this time, how rigid she was. But he didn't want to think about it too much—he couldn't think about her too much at all. He just needed to keep her safe. From him, from the CIA, from whatever evil entity that was out to get her.
"I hope you two have a game plan," Rawlins said as he put the car in drive.
He looked over at Elizabeth and she looked at him—they hadn't even talked about a game plan at all.
Henry caught Rawlins looking in the rearview. It startled him when a divider started sliding up between them—Henry didn't' realize this car was outfitted with a privacy screen. "Better get to talking," Rawlins said, almost a demand, as the divider met the top of the car.
He closed his eyes and blew out a long exhale, pushing his tongue against the back of his teeth as he clenched his jaw. Rawlins wasn't even trying to hide his amusement, and something about that pissed him off more about this whole position he's in. He was already pissed because he lost all professionalism, he lost his control of his body and his wants and desires and took advantage of this situation.
The tires hummed against the road while he heard Elizabeth shift over to his right in her seat, and he opened his eyes and stared straight in front of him at the privacy screen. Once they'd taken two right turns and one left, he felt her getting restless, and he looked over at her to see her fiddling with the top of her cast underneath her pant leg.
She looked at him as though he caught her doing something she wasn't supposed to, her fingers freezing in their place as she looked down.
"I think we need to talk about what happened," she breathed after an awkward, heavy silence settled over the entire backseat.
He breathed out, too, and looked over out the side window as the trees flew by them. "Yeah," he muttered, clearing his voice when it came out as more of a croak. He looked down in his lap at his fists balled up against his thighs, and he relaxed his fingers, opening and closing them a few times before looking back at her. "But what is there to say?" he asked.
She didn't look at him, just stared down into her lap—somewhere around her knee. He felt like begging her to look at him, but there was a voice inside his head telling him: keep the last inkling of professionalism you have, Henry.
She was biting the inside of her cheek now when he ran his hand through his hair quickly, dragging it down his face—trying that reset button once more. He was opening his mouth to speak when she cut him off, "I shouldn't have done that."
He looked at her again and furrowed his brow, feeling his stomach sink too deep into his body. He turned his head again to see her hands clenched together now in her lap, her head bent down to look at them. Her fingers were twisting around each other, and she was watching them bend each other in weird, contorting ways.
"I only did it because…trauma bond, and all." Elizabeth kept her gaze down and blinked four times. "We've just been through…" she gestured vaguely, finally looking over at him.
He nodded, not making her continue on. He knew what they'd been through. Gunfire. Bombs. A potential mole in the U.S. government trying to kill them. Hiding from said mole. The blood and the injuries and the killing—he knew too well.
"It's not…real." When she said that, she blinked again, and he took a shaky breath as he tightened his jaw. Not real, he thought, got it.
He should agree. He should say "you're right, this was all a mistake," but he couldn't make himself find his voice. It would've been the smart thing to do, but he just couldn't do it.
"So that's why you kissed me?" he blurted out instead, unsure of where it came from since he had been struggling so hard to find his voice before. "Some psychological response?"
She looked at him sympathetically, tilting her head forward and to the side just slightly as he fingers stopped fumbling with each other and finally rested in her lap. "I don't know," she said as she turned away from him, looking out the window. "Maybe. Probably."
As she spoke to the window, he ran his tongue along his top lip, "Well," he said, laying his head against the seat back, "That makes two of us."
He wasn't sure how he'd snuck the lie out of his mouth, but he did it, and he closed his eyes in pain from that lie now being out in the world.
"What do you mean?" she asked, and he felt her looking at him, but he couldn't pay attention to her heated gaze. He couldn't look into her eyes and say that same lie, he knew that much.
So he kept them closed as his head rocked on the headrest, "I mean I shouldn't have done it either," he said, his voice low, "I'm supposed to be keeping you safe, Elizabeth, not…" his voice trailed off as he tried to think of a word for this. Not being infatuated? Not thinking how beautiful you are all the time? None of the words felt right. Not kissing you. Not wanting you.
Nothing felt right still, and finally he just let it go and looked out of his window, letting his sentence hang there in the air like a corpse.
"We need to get a game plan together," he said to the window, and she cleared her throat to his side. "Tell me what you can about Conrad."
He looked over at her now and she was already staring at him, and he thought for a second he could see a glimmer in her eye. But she looked away before he could be sure, nodding, "Right," she said, taking a deep breath before spilling everything she knew about Conrad Dalton and his involvement in the CIA, from the time he was a Marine to the time he last spoke to her on comms in that London ballroom.