#“I made myself your handler for the time being. Now do some errands for me” is that how it works? is that allowed 🤨

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Good intentions

Bucky Barnes x reader

Had to divide the story into four parts, and I’m working as fast as I can to finish the rest.

Please don’t hesitate to tell me what you think :) Especially if you like it.

Everybody's alive.

When Natasha catches your reaction to seeing a soaking wet Bucky coming in from the rain, your life becomes unbearable. Nat considers herself a decent matchmaker, but what happens when both her subjects are resisting her attempts?

***

Part 1: Matchmaker

Word count: 4412

It had been raining for weeks. Racing streaks down the glass. Soft drumming against the umbrella. Big, fat drops of water splashing against the pavement, sending shivers through my body whenever they hit my skin. Two in rapid succession on my neck – don't know how, though, my coat collar was pulled up as high as it could go, and my umbrella was larger than average. Then one straight into my ear, which made me squeak in disgust. This had to be an omen.

I shook my umbrella before stepping through the door. No need to be a savage, though from the look of it, I was the only one who cared. A quick nod good morning to Nesta in the reception while making a mental note to call down the cleaning crew. The state of the floor was appalling. Mud and dirt and water – apparently not everyone remembered to wipe their feet before entering the building. And umbrellas all along the wall, dripping on the tiles, creating puddles so large a toddler would happily jump in them.

A long sigh escaped. Time for a stern talk with Nesta again. This was supposed to be a good first impression, not an impression of someone's mudroom. My stomach twisted, this was just the latest in a long string of minor complaints. If she didn't improve soon, I would have to make a note in her file and I hated being strict. Still, it was a part of my job, just like running errands before eight in the morning and longing for the coffee I left in my office. I didn't have to like it.

The elevator pinged. “Hey, Y/N.” Natasha walked out with a smile on her face. Her hair was red again, like flames cascading over her shoulders. Damn, that woman really could carry any hair colour. I nodded and smiled back. “Good morning, Agent Romanov. You're in early. What can I do for you? Love your hair, by the way."

"Thanks. I was wondering if you could help me with something."

I shook off my coat and adjusted the bag on my shoulder. "Of course. What do you need? Let me just –""

The door blew open, banging into the doorstopper before closing behind a sopping wet figure and an umbrella that definitely had seen better days. "Good morning, Y/N. Hey, Nat. Have you seen Clint?" Bucky shook himself, sending a glittering spray of water everywhere.

"No, but check the roof."

The air was knocked straight out of me. I couldn't stop the tiny squeak that tumbled over my lips.  The way his hair stuck to his face did things to me, not to mention how the water glistened on his metal arm. I hadn't felt heat on my face like that since I was seventeen and spilled juice all over my shirt in front of my neighbour Todd.

Swallowing the rest of the rude noises hovering in my throat, I forced a smile and nodded to the elevator. "Saw him by the coffee machine on the third floor earlier, Sargent Barnes." My voice was breathier that usual, and I cursed the weather for calling me out like that, while simultaneously praying to any deities listening that nobody noticed.

"Thanks." He marched to the elevator with a pace that would divide a crowd of people without a word.

Natasha looked between Bucky and me, a devilish smile spreading on her face. Once he was out of earshot, she bumped me with her elbow. “So, Bucky, huh?”

The heat crept up my ears and settled in my temples. Surely I was no more than two seconds from combusting? “What? I don’t… no, I mean –" I drew a big breath and steeled my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, what was it you needed my help with?”

Her eyes locked on mine. "Never mind that… You're a terrible liar."

A good point. I let out a small wheeze and scrunched my eyes shut. "Fine! Yes, Sargent Barnes is a tall drink of water. Is that what you want me to say? Well, yeah, okay. Maybe I do have a thing for him." The defeat was inevitable. Already my intestines were squirming. Nothing good could come from this.

Natasha looked like it was Christmas and her birthday all at once. "I knew it!"

I shrugged, ignoring the rising chill in my chest. How to best deescalate this before it got out of hand? "Well, you are a superspy after all. But please, PLEASE, don't say anything to him. I like my job. Besides, he's a fucking superhero. I'm just… me."

"Just you?" She shook her head lightly and rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I mean, come on! Look at me!" Holding my arms out, I swayed from side to side. I never liked to draw attention to my body, but apparently she needed the extra visual.

Natasha arched her eyebrow. "I am looking."

She was good, but I couldn't to give up that easily. "Yes, and then you clearly see that I'm ordinary. People like him don't fall for people like me. He's too perfect for that."

"Perf… perfect?" She snorted. "Y/N, Bucky's a mess. He's basically a cucumber with anxiety. Damn, you really have it bad if –"

"I know he has issues. You all do. I'm the one booking everybody's therapy sessions, remember? I'm not talking about his trauma. I'm talking about the fact that he's sweet as a marshmallow and his smile could power a small European country if Stark only found a way to harness its brilliance –"

"And the fact that he's got those broad shoulders and could probably lift and throw a bus if he wanted…"

"And that," I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck to stop that annoying heat from spreading even more. That was a delicious picture, alright. "But I'm nothing special."

"Y/N, sweetie, what are you talking about? You know everything, who's supposed to be where, what we're doing, when we come and go – that's practically a superpower right there. Don't downplay yourself."

The laughter came out dry and humourless. She had to be kidding. Being organised and good at puzzles wasn't exactly rocket science. And besides, I didn't even have a good memory. Without my trusty calendar and phone I'd be running around like Hei-Hei.

"Appreciate your confidence in me, but I don't think so, Nat," I countered and repeated: "Please don't tell him."

She sighed. "I won't."

I tilted my head and put on my best mom-voice. "Promise me."

Her shoulders slumped forward, and she lifted her hand in the air. "I promise I will never tell James Buchanan Barnes about your crush." There was a small pause. "Partypooper!"

"Who's a partypooper?"

I yelped and spun around, looking into Tony's smiling face. "Oh my god, Tony, I mean, Mr Stark." Why did he have to be so stealthy? A big, flashy guy like him ought to be required to announce his arrival with trumpets and drums. Through my galloping heartbeats I noted the glasses were new though, and wondered what kind of new tech they really were. They suited him.

He smirked. “Not the first time a lady has said that to me. But you didn’t answer my question.”

Exhaling, I closed my eyes, just barely resisting the urge to pinch my nose – or maybe kick him in the shin as a diversion. This was going to hell with the express train. “No one. No one's a partypooper.”

“Really?” He turned to Natasha. “Nat?”

I shook my head vigorously, bringing forth all malice I had to my eyes, which I have been told is substantial.

"Y/N has a crush and –"

"Ooh, is it me?" He winked and wiggled his eyebrows.

That made me laugh. "What? Oh, god no." Then I immediately felt bad for my reaction.

"Okay, a little bit insulted, but whatever…"

"She won't let me tell Bucky that she's in love with him," Natasha continued as if she had never been interrupted.

Tony gasped, a look of absolute delight in his eyes.

It was as if the ground disappeared beneath me. A rush of adrenaline almost knocked me off my feet. "Natasha! You promised."

She shrugged and pointed at Tony. "I promised not to tell Bucky. Last I checked, that is not him."

This time I did pinch the bridge of my nose and exhaled deeply, then groaned silently. “Nat!” Even I could hear the desperation in my voice. “Sargent Barnes is a friend. Well, uh, a colleague. Of sorts. I do not -“

“So you didn’t just squeak and burst into flames when he came through that door, huh?” She pointed to the glass door with a grin on her face.

Yeah, this was definitely a torture-the-handler day. Though Natasha was right about my crush, of course, and I wasn't even sure it was just a crush anymore; it had lasted for far too long to be called a crush, I had to keep a professional relationship with all of them.

Truth be told I had had a crush on Bucky since the day we were introduced, but I remembered the exact moment I had fallen in love: it was a chilly spring evening about a year ago. The team had decided to go out to eat, Wanda had discovered a new restaurant downtown, and the food supposedly was to die for. I couldn’t remember what I ate, or if I even liked it, but I remembered the knitted cardigan Bucky wore, the one with the colourful pattern on it. It looked really soft, and I found myself longing to touch it. That wasn’t the moment, though. The exact moment that made me go “Oh shit!” was when I cracked some stupid dad joke, and Bucky unleashed his full laughter on me. Who knew that "Singing in the shower is fun until you get soap in your mouth. Then it's a soap opera," would be my doom? But the sound had stunned me, made me lose my voice for several minutes. If someone had opened my skull at that moment, the only thing they would have found was an empty space and a dial tone - my brain frantically trying to reconnect with my body. If I concentrated I could still hear the ringing in my ears.

I avoided him for a week afterwards - well, tried and failed; my work meant contact with the entire Avengers team at all times - but the mental distance hurt too much to keep up with it. Since then, I allowed the realisation to wash over me, causing me both joy and suffering. And I thought I hid it well. Not well enough, apparently, since Natasha sniffed it out. I resisted the urge to close my eyes and sigh again. However, I couldn’t stop my intestines from curling into a tight ball. She had brought Tony into this after all.

Tony’s eyes shone. It had been a long time since any drama unfurled in the compound. He was practically starved, and this… This was delicious.

Looking between them, I knew this wouldn't end well. "You know what? I'm gonna go set up the briefing. Room 705. Thirty minutes. Don't be late." Fishing the phone out of my pocket, I sent a group text to everyone with time and location. In afterthought the wording in the text might have been a tad too harsh, threatening bodily harm if they were late, but the start of the day warranted some sort of reaction leaking from my brain. I locked eyes with Natasha. "Not. A. Word!"

She nodded, but the grin never left her face.

Tony watched me frantically push the elevator button, and I caught him whispering, not knowing I could still hear him. Or maybe he didn't care. "So what's your plan?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you have a plan? You're the resident match-maker here, aren't you?"

Nastasha let out a small laugh. "Do you know why she refuses to do anything about it?"

Tony nodded. “Because she’s professional and a bit afraid for what the people at the top are going to say?”

“No. Well, probably that too, but she thinks Bucky is way out of her league. Something about him being a superhero.” She snorted.

“What?” Tony let out a barking laugh. “Why? Bucky’s like the most timid ex-assassin you can find. I mean, he’s basically a cup of soft serve covered in salt and liquorice."

“I know. We gotta get them together. So, uh, are you in?”

“Uh, yeah! What’s your plan?”

The room finally sealed itself around me and I heard nothing else than the back of my head banging against the mirror wall and F.R.I.D.A.Y. cheerfully announcing what floor I was going to.

Half an hour later I had to step out for a bit to fetch a new cable to the projector, and when I got back, almost everyone were seated. My chest hollowed when I spotted Tony and Natasha sitting together, looking very conspiring indeed.

The urge to either run from the room or break them up rose in my throat, but instead I pulled up a chair next to Sam and focused on my breathing. He was one of the most calming people on the team, and I shamelessly used him as a shield.

Other than the small scare in the beginning, the morning briefing went without hitch. Agent Hill presented the upcoming missions, and I marked my calendar accordingly. Apparently SHIELD had detected a new terrorist group forming in northern Europe, and needed eyes.

Natasha was a given, she could go undetected for longer periods of time, and could take care of herself if necessary. Of course, Clint would come with her. They were an amazing team together, and he would probably go anyway, even if he was assigned to another task. It was better just to let him.

Steve and Sam would step in if it came to that, but would have to keep under the radar until they were needed. Bucky would travel to Europe with the others, but I knew he would set off alone the minute they touched ground in Stockholm. He worked best alone, or so he claimed, and anyway it would be an advantage to spread out. Still, I made a note on my pad to make sure he had everything he needed, and then some. Who knew where his road might lead him.

Bruce and Tony would work together to develop a better algorithm for the surveillance. So far, the terrorist group had evaded SHIELD's best efforts to pin them down. I was actually surprised to learn they didn't even know their name, which made me suspect something big was coming.

The rest of the team was assigned to other, smaller missions, scattered across the States. That way they could easily be reassigned if the situation escalated in Europe.

During the meeting, I kept an extra eye on Natasha and Tony. They sat next to each other, and though I thought I saw them passing notes a couple of times, I didn't want to bring any attention to it. The rest of the group looked oblivious. A sigh of relief escaped me, and Natasha looked up. She nodded imperceptibly towards Bucky, who sat with a bored look on his face and a discarded towel by his feet.

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head, trying my best to stop my ears from buzzing. Suddenly aware of every molecule in the air and trying desperately to ignore the intense weight, I focused all my attention back on Agent Hill’s presentation. Still, Bucky’s presence lingered in the back of my head, and together with the imminent threat from Natasha and Tony, I felt like I was sitting on explosives.

When Maria finally closed her laptop and turned to Director Fury, everybody got up, chatting as if the meeting had been a regular parent-teacher meeting and not a brief on a possible terrorist organisation on the rise.

“Can you believe that people will do things like this?” an agent asked as we all filed out of the room.

“Well, faith is a strong persuader,” I replied with a shrug. “Some are willing to go far for what they believe in.”

“Yeah, but they’re wrong,” the agent continued.

“They’d probably say the same about us,” Sam said, and I nodded.

“There are always two sides to the coin. If not more.”

“But -“

“And then it’s up to us to figure out what to do. We have to look at the big picture. Not everyone is capable of that.” Sam tilted his head with a look of disappointment in his eyes.

The agent huffed and hurried off with a look on his face that either said that he was constipated, or that being schooled by a member of the Avengers was too much for a Wednesday morning.

“Not sure he saw the big picture, Sam.” I shook my head and smiled.

“Don’t think he could. Better hope he doesn’t get promoted soon.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. He’ll be on desk duty for years still. And I guess you have a little desk duty yourself right now?”

“Well, actually… I was hoping you could do me a favour.”

Uh-oh. That sounded ominous. “Of course. What can I do, what do you need?” My voice rose to mimic the retail job I had before I got lucky enough to join SHIELD's training and ultimately land my dream job.

Sam grimaced. "I gotta go to Louisiana. Just a short trip, couple of days maybe."

"Shit, don't think Director Fury would be too happy about that right now, not to mention the rest of upstairs. You're supposed to be on silent duty until you leave for Sweden."

"Yeah, I know that, it's just… Cass and AJ has been asking me to come visit. And Sarah's getting sick of their nagging. Also, I sorta promised on the phone yesterday. Didn't know there would be a world crisis today."

Smiling softly, I hid the urge to smack my face into the wall. This was going to take a lot of explaining and string-pulling. He was supposed to go no-contact for the duration of the mission, but I hated disappointing the boys. And Sarah was a good woman. She didn't deserve being let down, even though it technically wasn't Sam's fault this time.

"Sam, you're such a softie," I said after some consideration. "Go. I'll figure something out. Just be back before the weekend, okay? And –"

"Yeah yeah, and I'll come in at once if the situation escalates before we're scheduled to head out."

I gave him a crooked smile to disguise the trouble he had just handed me. "Sure. But I was gonna say bring back some of that pecan pie. I've been dreaming about that since last summer."

Sam let out a loud laugh and kissed the top of my head, melting my nervous soul to a gooey puddle. "You're the best. Thanks."

"Fly safe."

"I always do."

"Really now?"

"Oh so that's how it is, huh?"

"That's how it is. Say 'hi' to Sarah for me."

With a short wave, he took off down the corridor, leaving me quietly screaming and already doing the mental gymnastics to find a solution.

***

Departure time was in two days. Everyone was on edge, trying their best to prepare for any eventualities, both inconceivable and expected. After a short meeting with the departure crew to share the last pieces of intel, I felt empty and tired. Missions always affected me more than they should. These people were my friends; if anything were to happen to them, my world would collapse.

Apparently I wasn't the only one feeling a bit drained. No one was in a hurry to leave, and the conversation was hushed and weary.

"You know what we need?" Tony said loudly, slicing through the silence and winking to Natasha. He thought I wouldn't notice, but I did, and the suspicion grew in my chest. What now?

"Pizza!" they said in unison. "We should gather everyone, before we all go."

Tony nudged my arm. "My treat. What do you say?"

Narrowing my eyes, I tilted my head. "…sure."

"Oh, don't be like that. We all need good pizza. Especially today, what with all this rain. Hey, F.R.I.D.A.Y., you know that pizza bakery up the street, the one with the chicken one. Order pizza for everyone. Remember the one with pear, brie, and white sauce. Have it delivered to the lounge."

That did it for me. If he ordered my favourite, I'd be damn sure to eat my part. "When?"

"Uh…" He looked at his watch. "Noon. I'll send out a ping. Don't worry about it."

"Thanks. I do have a ton of things to do to make sure you guys don't die on this trip." I tried to keep it light, but now that the thought had settled in my mind, I had to fight off the tears. It was a miracle I managed to keep the tremble from my voice.

An hour later I tripped over the doorstep to the lounge, surprised to see it was empty except for Tony and Natasha and a huge stack of pizzas. "Where is everybody?" The door clicked behind me, sealing the silence in.

Natasha shrugged. "Late?"

At that moment the door opened again and Bucky sauntered in with a mischievous smile on his face. "Gimme the pizza and nobody gets hurt."

"Jeez, Buck. Remember your manners. There are ladies present." Tony grinned, but opened the top box and helped himself to a slice.

Bucky snickered and rolled his eyes. "Sorry, Y/N," he said with an over-the-top flourish. "I hope you can forgive my insolence." He gestured towards the pizzas. "Ladies first."

My heart did a somersault, but I managed to keep it cool on the outside. "Insolence forgiven," I replied, swallowing a hiccough that lodged itself in my throat, before taking a plate and sifting through the boxes until I found the right one. Loading my plate, I sat down, sinking into the soft cushions. Only thing missing now was some candles and a drink, and I'd be set for the day.

Natasha gave Tony a pointed look. Two minutes later he picked up his phone and half jogged out the door. That was odd. Tony never jogged.

I looked between Natasha and the door, the pizza forgotten halfway between the plate and my mouth. She looked anywhere but at me, but was saved from a confrontation by her phone ringing. "Gotta take this," she muttered. "Can't prepare enough for the trip." She smiled apologetically and left the room. That was a lie, of course. She had full control; all intel was already read and destroyed. And if something new had come up, I would have been notified too.

Suddenly the plate felt heavy in my hand. Maybe it was naïve, but I had expected Natasha and Tony to respect my wishes; after all I had made it absolutely clear that they should leave it, hadn't I? Their amusement and entertainment wasn't worth being an inconvenience to Bucky.

"What's going on?" Bucky asked when the door clicked behind Natasha.

"I… I don't know," I lied haltingly.

Bucky shrugged. "Oh well. Might as well catch up on some paperwork before the flight too. See you later." With one slice between his teeth and another in his hand, he left the room with a friendly wave.

"Sure. See you." I spoke to his back; the glass door had already closed behind him. The lump in my throat grew. Even though Tony had ordered my favourite pizza, I no longer had any appetite. My mouth was dry, and it was a struggle to swallow. In a fit of frustration, I kicked the table, smacking my toe in the process. The pizza slice slid from the plate and landed on my thigh. "Fuck!"

"Ooh, pizza!"

I spun in my seat. Steve had just arrived, and that made me feel a little bit better at least. He was always a laugh.

"Where is everybody?" He looked around and spotted my moping figure, holding an equally sad slice of pizza. "You okay?"

"I guess," I replied, trying to smile and failing miserably. "Everybody else left. The mission, yeah?"

"Right. I thought everything was planned and okayed."

I couldn't bring myself to fill him in on the situation. If he didn't already know, it was nice to have someone neutral by my side. "Yeah, I don't know."

Their scheme was becoming clear; making Bucky spend time with me alone. But it was a failure. Even he thought it was awkward, and he obviously didn't want to be alone with me. Not that I blamed him. If I was him, I'd do the same.

I glanced at my watch. 12.30. Just then Sam, Bruce, Wanda, and Vision spilled into the room, heading towards the pizza like a herd of hungry goats. Slowly my appetite returned too, and half an hour later the blow to my heart was a painful memory pushed to the back of my mind by excellent pizza and wonderful friends.

Later that day I ran into Tony on the way to the garage. He tried to slip past me, but had to stop when I blocked the door, arms crossed over my chest and puffing myself up as much as I could. "Seriously, Tony! What did you expect to happen, huh? That I'd just throw myself in his arms because we were alone? Because newsflash: I've got both self-control and decency. Do you really think I've never been alone with him before?"

At least he had the decency to look thoroughly chastised, and he mumbled something inaudible I thought maybe sounded like an apology.

No way he was getting away with a tiny one. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

"It was Nat's idea," he said, trying a smirk that didn't work at all.

"I very much doubt that," I replied, dragging a hand over my eyes. "Do I have to call Pepper? I didn't think so," I added when he shook his head. "Do better! Now excuse me. I have a lot of work to do to ensure you actually don't die on this mission." With a final, exaggerated frown, I turned and marched out of the room, ignoring the samba in my chest.

Part 2: Eel infested waters

[space-blue]

The Last Ingredient

A little bell peels in the air somewhere, comes muffled to our ears and makes me smile. It is proof that time still flows, that soon we'll return indoors, where breathing through your nose doesn't trigger a gagging reflex.

"Rachar, do you think the weather was a selling point when they decided to build our prison here?" I ask, panting.

"Totally. I can see the ad, 'atmosphere of the 6th circle of Hell, hot, humid, and thick as pudding.'"

I stare up at the ever shifting pattern of lush and exotic leaves, criss-crossing above our heads in a breeze we can see but never quite feel. Rachar, halfway through his thirty years sentence, jest as he might, is much more acclimatised than I ever wish to become.

"Don't you need my help for gathering more ingredients, Ira? I quite enjoy the rush of danger from those errands."

"No. No more errands," I say, "I only need one last ingredient, and..." I make a fluttering motion with my hand, mimic myself flying away. Free. "Soon now."

This news makes my friend stir and sit up. After three years of secretly brewing this potion, he must have thought me all talk.

"What is it, this last ingredient?"

I make a face up at him, peering into the eyes smouldering behind his own little jungle of tangled hair.

"It's something I'm not sure I can get."

"For real? But you've been so keen on escaping this whole time... Well, maybe it's for the best. Considered what they'd do to you if they catch you. I kinda like you, you know. I'd rather not see that done to you. No one gets out of here unless their time is up."

I don't know if it's respect or pity I feel surging in me when he speaks like this, him who won't rebel, won't try to escape. Who sits day after day in this green hell of a place, knowing there will be endless tomorrows made of the same infernal heat, the same corrosive dullness, the same absence of freedom. Making it out doesn't even matter. Trying is my only way to remain sane. I can't relate to his defeatism and meek acceptance. Not that it's easy to ever relate to Rachar, who was done in for running the biggest, most lethal cartel of drugs for were-animals Europe had ever seen, and killing, in his werebear form, five of the special-ops werewolves that were sent to arrest him. A sleek piece of remorseless trash, though a decent fellow one-on-one.

"Ira, you're growling."

"Sorry, mind wandered."

Rachar laughs, pats my hair with a hand monstrous enough to crush my skull in a squeeze. "Think of the future. When you finish brewing that potion of yours and pull a Shawshank over the eyes of Erikson and the crew."

"Don't go talking so loud, naming names and mentioning potions!" I sit up, unnerved. "The break is almost over."

"Ease up Ira, I'd know if anyone were around. I wouldn't let them lock you down with the bloodies either."

"Aye, like you could help it if they decided to."

Which is not the real problem. To determine the strength of new inmate magi, the prison's surgeons test the glands that secrete magica, always found in the armpits and throat. That test labelled me as a mere C-class magus, hardly a trouble to handle here. In comparison, A-class magi, like blood witches, are near impossible to catch alive. Meaning the handful of them we have in the basement make my werebear-druglord friend look like a philanthropist. They're kept with their hands in wet casts so they can't sharpen spelling tools, their teeth in moulds to keep them from biting themselves bloody. Not enviable. But people like me, with a little known organ tucked away behind the stomach, who can brew potions in their own bodies–potion being the romantic name for a magical bile–are extremely rare, and impossible to safely detain. A-class treatment wouldn't cut it. So long as I'm fed, I can always brew something annoying or even lethal to my handlers. S-class, maybe? As in Straight-to-firing-squad-class.

"Surely Erikson wouldn't let them take you away. The man is fond of you."

"Brewers are thought extinct since the mid 20th century. They'd probably dissect me, Rachar. Officers would not care for my being some guardian's pet prisoner."

"Eurk–well, I won't talk so... What's that last ingredient anyway?" His hand flies up before I can answer. "Speaking of the Devil," he mutters.

"Rachar, Ira, you two deaf? Didn't hear the second bell?"

The Devil indeed.

"Ah, Erikson. We were busy exchanging news, so much has happened since yesterday after all."

"You crazies shouldn't even be allowed to meet."

"Crazy? Nonsense, I'm a lamb."

"And I'm perfectly conscious of my actions."

"That just makes you a horrible person, Rachar."

Back in the cool bliss of air-con, I nod to him, a discrete salute I mean as an adieu, his looks are worried, but he tips me an invisible hat before turning away. So long, crazy friend. Up the stairs now, and following Erikson. Like every evening, my aisle is a mess of supernatural creatures and their supernatural gaolers, but I only have eyes for mine.

Erikson. I watch his blond head, his shoulders shifting under his miraculously crisp white shirt–what spell does the man use to keep them dry, I still wonder. By habit, I match his steps. Hateful habit, that makes my face relax, almost smile for him when he looks my way. Too long he's been my mindful captor. The man answering my calls, opening my door. The hand feeding me, the hand swiping me little things, when no one watches. He's a decent guy under the rough persona one needs to work in this jail, and I'm neck deep in Stockholm syndrome.

Erickson, for three years blind to my careful plotting. I hid it all from him, always playing the nice, reasonable lass, caught up in troubles bigger than her. Not the weirdo woman bargaining favours at every turn to obtain samples of hair, skin, blood, fabrics, spices... Stealing food, making some rot, pre-digesting others for the desired effects. Anything that might contain the ingredients my gut craves to continue its infernal distillation. Behind his broad back I've licked the walls of my cell, scratching my tongue over the lead paint till I nearly poisoned myself. It's an organic, messy trade. For three years I've brewed this concoction. Haltingly, with no known recipe, brought forth by my instinct and my need to escape, disappear, melt through walls–any will do so long as I get far away. Where Erikson won't be tearing at my mind, brushing my heart with the very fingers that turn the key in the lock of my cage.

"Ira, you're growling."

"Funny, that's the second time I've been told today." I pace down my little cell and back up to him.

"What is making you so tense?" he asks, leaning against the bars to talk with me.

Erikson. My last ingredient.

"Some internal turmoil over something I need but struggle to obtain."

"That's the point of jails."

"Aye, but smuggling doesn't usually get a magus in jail."

"You were smuggling human flesh!"

I shrug, give him a sad grin. "How would I have known? It was spelled."

He smiles back at me, a show of dimples. "Save it for the judges. Your appeal won't be delayed forever."

Erikson, who believes me when I lie. I step closer, curl my fingers around the cold steel bars. Looking up at him, I whisper, "will you miss me, when I'm gone?"

He frowns. Is it hatred, or love, festering in my pounding chest, that makes me flush and quiver as I wait for his answer?

"I'd like that; missing you. If it means you're acquitted."

The idea of missing him makes my mind trip over itself.

"I think I'd miss you too," I surprise myself saying, "but I don't think I'd like that at all."

I dive in the grey pools of his eyes, so close, like full moons pulling at the tides of my emotions. Erikson murmurs my name like a warning, but doesn't move. I'm on the tip of my toes and my fingers rubbing against the wondrous white shirt and the warm flesh behind it. His breath smells like mints and beer and magica. His lips are hot, firm but hesitant, like a cliched first kiss. His fingers are trailing my jaws, scorching my skin.

In one strong bite his blood comes gushing into my mouth. He cries, rending my heart–part free woman, part betrayer. I swallow my feelings along with coppery blood. There is a burning sensation in my guts as the last ingredient creates a chain reaction. The world dissipates in clouds of matter around me. Erikson's hands reach out but pass right through me. Through my victorious smile and my farewell nod like through a gentle wind.

I'm immaterial.

I'm free.

~~ August 2016 – Theme : Potion and elixirs

[incorrectly-quoted-queers]

Drunk Punch Love: INTERMISSION ARCHANGEL

Pairing: FemShep and Garrus Vakarian (Shakarian)

Rating: PG-13 (with some tossed F-bombs)

Summary: Their awkward, badass journey through saving the galaxy and accidentally falling in love

INTERMISSION ARCHANGEL: 100 Days

Their team was growing faster than Garrus or Sidonis could keep up. Their first base was Garrus' shitty apartment in Zakera Wards, where he and Sidonis stayed. It only took a free drink for Garrus to get Lantar's story. Sidonis wanted to bite back because the Blue Suns used to use Ward kids to run errands, get info, sneak in where they couldn't. Like Citadel Rats, but much more dangerous. He was a homeless kid and they gave him persk and safehouses; he grew up in their systems and never questioned it. That is, until they upgraded Sidonis to be a handler and then willingly sent all of his kids at a target to get killed. "Had to test their guns", they said. Most of his life, Sidonis just thought the danger was normal, that none of it was a big deal. But after none of his kids came back, he realized he was just one of the lucky ones.

He wanted to help make more lucky ones.

Worked for Garrus, and having a remorseful ex-informant gave them a lot more options on Omega. Garrus' name caught a little too much attention from the mercs who'd run into him and Shepard before, so they leaned on Sidonis' contacts to build up a team and get leads. And after a few duo missions to get the point across that they were serious, the locals started calling Garrus "Archangel".

It was a good enough code name.

In only a few months, they picked up infamy and six other guys. Apparently, word of trying to strike back against the mercs travelled fast.

The first to join up were locals, like Ryel Eros, Jawth, and Nikolai Butler. Ryel used to work for Aria as a guard, but went underground when he found some of her practices unsavory. Jawth used to help the rich stay safe on Omega, but he got sick of how many cameras refused to look out. Reminded him a little too much of his fracture homeworld. And Nikolai spent all his life on Omega, even was a member of Eclipse for a long time. But then he fell in love with his wife, Nalah, and he couldn't make excuses for himself anymore. Especially not when Eclipse sacrificed her merc sister, Ezzi, in favor of some payday.

Oddball outcasts like Gibbon Allus, Ro'Wytte Vas Omega, and Danit Zol followed. Without their own homes anymore, they wanted to do some good in one of the worst places in the galaxy. Garrus could hardly say no to a Salarian explosives expert, a Quarian trap technician, or a Batarian tech genius. Especially since he was pretty sure Gibbon had been in the STG at one point and the guy applied to the team by blowing up a whole lading dock.

Everything they did started small; protecting a few local businesses, stealing some drop offs to get in the gangs' way. They called themselves a merc group, but their money didn't come from people paying them for protection. That would make what they were doing pointless, a new band of thugs taking over. No, they stole from those drop offs and worked with that.

Back in the day, Shepard called that "Robin Hood style", when they took from bad guys. He finally bothered to look up the Earth story. He kinda liked the idea of it. It was just his style, too; breaking the rules to do the right thing.

Over time, Ryel and Sidonis' old connections started to net them serious jobs, and get them serious infamy along with it.

By the time they succeeded in their first big operation, breaking a nearby blackmailed mining colony out of the Blood Pack's grips, Garrus couldn't even take his guys out for drinks anymore. His gear was too recognizable. Instead, Butler's wife picked up the booze and they celebrated back in the dingy apartment.

It wasn't much space, but it was enough to fit eight guys and all their gear, so for one night it would do. And Garrus was finally feeling like a real person again, like the things he did mattered, so he was more than happy to drown himself in that, no matter how crowded it was.

Maybe he wouldn't have to drown himself if he still didn't think of Shepard each time Nikolai ordered vodka.

Even when things were going good, though, it was hard not to think about her sometimes. She would've loved this. At first she'd just find it hilariously absurd, this sheer variety of misfits banding together to try to fight merc presence on Omega of all places. But then Shepard would've admired it. Hell, she would've put everything she had into it. Maybe that's why he found himself so dedicated to pulling these guys together.

Yeah, he couldn't think about that too long or he'd be lost in a glass of ryncol again. And he avoided doing that nowadays.

Garrus just tried to enjoy what he had at the moment. Some good fighters, a good team, and they were doing some damn good.

And thank fucking spirits, they never asked him to make speeches.

Butler did like to get real talkative when he started drinking, though. Between his name and attitude, he was like the bizarre love child of Joker and Shepard, something both of them would find disgusting. Garrus had to admit, it made him like the guy more.

Standing on the damned table, Butler said, "To the asshole turian that brought us all together. I'd let you snipe me anyday, Garrus."

"Sounds like a pick-up line, but I'll take it."

Butler wasn't done. "I shot my first guy when he was trying to mug my friend, and Eclipse took me in. I thought they were saving me. But this? This is what's saving me."

Garrus wasn't sure what Nalah put in their drinks, but soon all of them were getting nostalgic. Across the room, Danit was fiddling with this handheld puzzle he always had with him. He didn't look up, but he added his own comments. "People don't expect Batarians to be much more than gun-toting mercs. I like proving them wrong, in every category."

Ro'Wytte started chuckling. "Hell, I enjoy being a good guy Quarian rebel. The Flotilla doesn't get to tell me how to make the galaxy a better place."

"I feel that way about STG."

Jawth chuckled from across the room. "It's the only reason why I like you, Salarian."

The constant troublemaker, Ryel, was the one sitting in the corner with his arms crossed. "Yeah, we all know each other's reasons for being here real well. Comes up in a cramped apartment. But what about you, Garrus? You've been pretty tight lipped about what got you here."

Moments like these cut a little too close to the woman he was failing to run from. Luckily, Alliance military wasn't too keen on sharing Shepard's team dossiers and Sidonis was the only one with an obsession for battle vids. As far as they knew, he was just a skilled turian sniper who wanted to bite back.

Before he could open his mouth, though, Sidonis started talking. "Garrus has the best story, guys, he-"

Garrus cut the well-meaning loud-mouth off. "I'm no one. Just an ex-C-sec who got tired of the red tape. After the Battle of the Citadel, I... lost myself. Ended up here. Couldn't help but try to do some good."

Everyone else wasn't really paying attention or didn't really care that much, but Ryel smirked at him like he knew a secret. "Okay, Vakarian, keep your secrets."

Growing uncomfortable with the spotlight, Garrus was about ready to spin some bullshit about his childhood or a lost girlfriend. But Gibbon and Danit bored easily, so the second conversation lulled, they lured most everyone into some sort of card game. Only three people weren't playing: Butler ditched to go home to his wife, and he and Sidonis stuck to the sidelines. He could already feel the questions burning in Lantar's mouth before he said anything.

It only took all of thirty seconds for Sidonis to ask, "Why are you keeping your past a secret from them?"

"They don't need to know."

"I dunno, if I knew my squad leader helped take down a rogue Spectre I'd find that pretty inspiring."

He was trying not to get annoyed, he really was, but Sidonis just didn't get it. Everything about that time in his life was choked out by Shepard. He could share stories, ideas with them. But having them know he was close buddies with the now dead Savior of the Citadel? He didn't want to go down that road with all their questions. His heart used to hemorrhage so much blood he could feel it every second of every day. Now, it just got weak sometimes. Garrus couldn't go back just because his team got curious.

Them falling in love with his "old hero days" with her would not help.

And he didn't want his team talking about her the way the vids did; it would be fucking unbearable.

Garrus just tried to keep his answer simple, though. "I don't want to make what we're doing about who I was then."

"Oh, I get it. You want them to see you as their leader, not Commander Shepard's lackey?"

The question was so self-centered, it stunned him. But did he really want to keep this line of conversation going, the kind that tiptoed around the awful truths of Anya Shepard and her long-gone ballet shoes? Yeah, thinking about that much longer felt much fucking worse than Sidonis not understanding him. With a wave, Garrus said, "Sure. That."

"Okay, so not that." Sidonis leaned against the wall next to him and said, "You know, you're not going to be able to keep it from them forever."

"Says who?"

"You really like leaning into this whole mysterious, masked vigilante thing, huh?" Sidonis laughed at him, but the more Garrus glared at him, he only seemed to find it funnier. "You're a regular turian Batman, scowl and all."

"Who the hell is Batman?"

Even though his mood was pretty soured, Sidonis had this nostalgic grin on his face that was kinda infectious. If Garrus wasn't so annoyed, he wouldn't hate it. "When I was a kid, one of the other Omega Rats had these old Earth comic books. They were filled with superheroes and we idolized them. One was a cranky guy named Batman, who was just a normal human, but with lots of tech, training, and dark hero-type convictions. You kinda remind me of him."

Garrus just stared at the guy, because everything that came out of his mouth sounded crazy. But he also didn't want to admit it sounded like some of the crazy human stories Shep used to share with him. He'd bought a couple James Bond vids on impulse, down at the shops. He didn't want to tell Sidnois that. Instead, he focused on the absurd hero part. "Why would anyone take a guy named Batman seriously."

"Coming from a guy code-named Archangel." Garrus growled, but Sidonis just kept on smirking. "You can glare and growl all you want, but you're a hero, backstory or not. Get used to the fact these guys just want to know you because they believe in you." Then, he bumped shoulders with him and added, "But if you want to remain a man of mystery, I got your back."

This time, Garrus stayed quiet, no growling or glaring. Because he didn't want to remember the same words coming out of his mouth only a few months ago, and where that got him. Or the woman he said them to.

Across the room, Danit and Ro started to argue about who was cheating, because of course one of them couldn't just lose. It was starting some chaos, and Sidonis went over to break it up. However dumb it was, it was nice to be apart of something again; something that brought good, weird people together.

He hated to admit how much it reminded him of the Normandy.

Looking at his guys, maybe where he ended up after Shepard wasn't so bad, after all. If it didn't take losing her to get here, he didn't want to change anything, honestly.

But losing her was still going to be the hardest part of all this, no matter what.

The best he could do was enjoy what he had left. Walking over to the table, he asked, "Deal me in?"

Jawth tossed a hand of cards to him, ready to go. "Never thought you'd ask. We need another guy with the proper quads in on this."

No one took that very well, but Garrus was happy to play the game to the sweet sound of their bickering. He was really starting to love hearing it.

/

I like Garrus' team more than I probably should, and it definitely made me a little over-indulgent and distracted while writing it.

BUT I did name some of these characters after my friends so I'm a little biased.

Thanks so much for enjoying my stories! Extra thanks to my patrons:

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See you next chapter! 

[wittystiles]

The Bluff | Part One | Mitch Rapp

Author: wittystiles

Title: Prologue

Characters: Stan Hurley, Irene Kennedy, Reader, (tech Mitch Rapp is in this too)

Summary: Mitch Rapp is a highly trained CIA opperative. And a huge pain in the organizations ass. As a member of the elite (and unknown) Orion Team, Mitch causes quite the headache for CIA Assistant Director, Irene Kennedy and his trainer Stan Hurley. The two have decided things must change, and Mitch must be calmed down. With the help of Reader, they hope they have things figured out.

A/N: This is like my favorite thing right now. The ideas I have for this have me so excited! Like, I’m looking forward to sharing this. Also, this is my first (of hopefully many) chaptered fics, so. Please enjoy! Thank you to @ellie-bee242 for the prompt that has inspired this whole thing, and for her constant support and help.

The smell of bitter coffee was prominent in the small office mixing with the subtler scent of whatever air freshener hung in the corner above the door. Stan thought, distantly, that it may perhaps be vanilla. Then again, that could be the smell of the creamer that Irene had generously poured into her cup turning the color of the coffee from tar to mud. She raised the cup for a drink as Stan looked at his watch.

12:14 PM

“Are we ever going to get this meeting started?” Stan questioned Irene, setting his own cup down on the edge of her desk. “I’ve been sitting in here for ten fuckin’ minutes. I’ve got places to be, Irene. People to see, things to do. I can’t sit in here all day with my thumb up my ass.”

Licking her lips to get the taste of (the still awful) coffee off of them, Irene lifted her eyes to look at the clock on the wall behind Stan Hurley. She gave a small smirk, keeping mum.

“Oh for heaven's sake,” Stan huffed, pushing to stand from his seat.

Irene narrowed her eyes at him, “sit Stan.” Her tone was flat but demanding. Stan sat.

Returning her attention to the clock, Irene smiled.

12:15 PM

“The meeting was scheduled for 12:15. You arrived early, and therefore I had no obligation to speak to you. Now, I do.”

Stan got visibly annoyed, pursing his lips into a thin line. He leaned his back against the chair, crossing his left knee over his right. “What is this meeting for, Irene? My previous statement still stands. I still have things to do and people to see.”

Irene picked a file up from her desk, holding it out to Stan as she sipped from her cup.

Stan read the name on the top of the folder and rolled his eyes, trying to keep from groaning audibly. “Why is every meeting we have about him?”

Irene shifted her position in her chair to be more comfortable, holding her mug with two hands. “You know why, Stan.”

Taking a deep breath, Stan began thumbing through the folder, huffing a bit. “I know all of this shit.” He closed it, dropping it to Irene’s desk with a dull thud. “What did he do now that warrants me dragging my ass all of the way down here to drink shitty coffee with you?” Stan picked his cup up, taking a swallow of the liquid.

Irene set her cup down and leaned forward, crossing her hands in front of her, resting her forearms against her desk. “He is a risk, Stan. And we fe-”

Stan cut her off with curt laugh. “Are you about to tell /me/ that this kid is a risk, Irene? I have been saying that since day. Fucking. One.” Stan jabbed his finger against the folder for emphasis. “I knew he was a risk, and I told you not to take him in. Told you not to give him to me. It is not my fault you did the opposite.” Stan crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’re about to say I need to crack down on him harder, save your breath. I’m doing my best with that sonovabitch, who if you couldn’t guess, doesn’t listen to more than a tenth of what I say.”

Irene took a deep breath, shaking her head. “If you would have let me finish I would have said ‘and we feel it is necessary to bring in reinforcements to help you’.”

Stan nearly dropped his mouth in shock at her. “I don’t need reinforcements, Irene. What I need is to get Mitch Rapp out of my fucking hair. I don’t have that much left!” Stan gestured to his head with his right hand, resting the elbow of his left on the arm of the chair. “This little asshole has single handedly raised my blood pressure to the point where I need pills. Can you believe that? Pills, Irene. Like the kind given to Grandad’s at the nursing home.”

Irene bit on her lips to keep from snickering at him. “Aren’t you a Grandad, Stan?”

He pointed the index finger of his right hand at her, narrowing his eyes. “You’re pushing me Irene.”

Irene unfolded and then refolded her hands together. “Stan, we’re sending in a handler. For fear of Mitch actually killing you from aggravation, we think you need someone else on your team.”

“I can handle him myself,” Stan said bitterly.

“You just told me you need him out of your hair, and that he’s giving you high blood pressure.” Irene reminded Stan.

“I say those things out of frustration. Every time I have to get into a monkey suit and come down here to talk to you about that little prick I harbor a bit more resentment for him. That, however, does not mean I am done trying with him. He is my own personal vendetta. I do not want you sending in one of your uppity, sniveling fresh-out-of-the-womb Bureau babies to try and keep track of that kid. Just, give me a fucking higher powered taser. Perhaps an actual cattle prod to deal with him. He’ll get his ass in check.”

Irene raised her hand to her forehead, rubbing it with the pads of her first three fingers. “Stan, you’re not cattle prodding Mitch into submission.”

“Absolutely not, I’m going to cattle prod him until he shits his pants. And then he won’t continue making mistakes. Like how you have to rub a dog’s nose in it’s own piss so it stops going in the house.”

Irene’s eyes widened in shock. “Stan! You’re not going to do that.”

Irene swore she saw disappointment flash in Stan’s eyes. She had to take in a deep breath for a count of five seconds, releasing it for three before she could speak. “Stan, electrocuting him will likely make his behavior worse.”

Stan shrugged, “so? I would enjoy it.”

“The whole point -” Irene had to catch herself, her voice had risen. “The whole point of this conversation is for us to, together, decide the best course of action to curb Mitch’s wayward behavior. Not make it worse and give you some sadistic pleasure.”

“Please don’t make it seem like I would get off on torturing the kid. Because, while true, it’s uncomfortable.” Stan sighed heavily. “You’ve decided you’re bringing in a Bureau baby on your own, Irene. How is that us coming up with the best course of action “together”?”

Irene rolled her eyes. “Stop calling them ‘Bureau babies’ please, Stan?”

Stan nearly shook his head no, but stopped himself. “What would you prefer? CIA Cunts? I like that one too.”

Irene flared her nostrils in anger, taking a deeper breath. “Stan, we’re bringing in a handler. But I have chosen to allow you to help me decide what this handlers duties are.”

“Staying the fuck away, how’s that sound?”

“We have two really good candidates for this position, Stan. One is a newly recruited trainee, similar to Mitch when he first started here. He’s a little timid, but I think he’d work decently.” Irene picked up a file and held it out to Stan, who promptly tossed it back onto her desk. “The other is a second year field agent. Started early, graduated top of the class, follows commands.”

Irene picked up the final file from her desk and offered it to Stan. He read the name at the top of the folder, narrowing his eyes dangerously.

“They’re a she?” He asked, opening the file. He thumbed through it for a second before setting it down on his lap. “She’s pretty. She’ll be trouble though, Irene. You know how Mitch is when it comes to women.”

Irene sighed, “which is why I’m leaning towards her.”

Stan took a moment of silence, holding his hands together against his lips in a mock prayer position. “Why don’t we assign someone else to him too? Just really drain the agencies pocket books?”

Irene sighed, “I think two will be enough.” She sipped her coffee before raising an eyebrow. “But maybe two directly assigned to him wouldn’t be the worst thing you’ve ever come up with Stan.”

Stan rolled his eyes, shaking his head a bit. “It wasn’t a real idea, Irene. I was being what you’d call ‘a smartass’.”

Irene was going to say something but caught herself.

“So, how do you plan on using this chick?” Stan asked, indicating the folder in his lap.

“That’s why you’re here Stan,” Irene said. She resumed her comfortable, leaned back position in her chair.

Two hours of brainstorming and logistics later, Stan and Irene had formed their plan. They had talked all of their options over, some causing Stan to curse in frustration. Others making Irene groan in annoyance. When they’d narrowed down their course of action, they made sure it was the best one. The one that would help Mitch the most.

They both sure as hell hoped so. And, though neither would admit it, they were both a little worried. There was a lot of room for error.

“Would you go refill our coffees?” Irene asked, holding her cup out to Stan while tapping at her keyboard with her other hand.

“I’m not your errand boy. Ask your assistant to do it again. She looked eager to please.” Stan went to pick his cup up, realizing his was empty as well. He huffed, pushing up from the chair he felt like he was growing a part of. “I’ll be back.” He snatched Irene’s cup from her outstretched hand, holding it by the handle in the same hand as his own cup. He pulled the door open and nearly walked into the woman with her fist raised to knock.

“Oh,” Stan said a little startled. “Did you invite her up, Irene?”

Irene nodded and Stan moved out of the way letting the woman in. She gave him a small smile before taking a seat in one of the two chairs in front of Irene’s desk. She crossed her legs, and rest her hands on her knee. “Hello, Ms. Kennedy.” She said, smiling politer to Irene than she had to Stan.

Stan had set the mugs on the desk of Irene’s assistant and returned to her office, shutting the door behind him. “You were fast.” Irene said, giving her attention to the new addition to her and Stan’s meeting. “I just sent the message to have you be sent up, what, forty seconds ago?”

The new addition gave a shrug, “I was already up here ma’am. You said you figured you’d want to see me around 2:15, perhaps 2:30. It’s 2:20 -” she looked down at her watch. “2:21, actually, so. I thought I’d head up. I’m sorry if I’m early.”

Stan snorted a laugh, “if she told you 2:15 you’re late. If she told you 2:30 well, don’t expect her to talk to you until then. She likes to shove it down your throat that you’ve got to follow her orders, so she’ll sit in silence for ten fuckin’ minutes to piss you off.”

Irene let out a deep breath, “watch the way you talk Stan.” She turned her attention to the woman, smiling sweetly. “Thank you for being prompt, (Y/N). Good to see you.”

(Y/N) gave Irene a gentle nod, gripping her knee a bit.

“You can relax, (Y/N). I have not called you up here on anything terrible. You don’t have to look so rigid.” She glanced at Stan. “Don’t make a remark.”

(Y/N) relaxed back against the chair, loosening the grip on her knee. “Why may I ask, am I here then, ma’am?”

Irene smiled, “we have an assignment for you, (Y/N). You’ve proven yourself more than apt in the field, and during your internship during college your leaders all commended you highly. We feel that you would be the most fitting for this - role, if you will.”

Stan rolled his eyes at Irene calling the assignment a role, but felt it nearly appropriate. “This is going to make her such a good actress, I’ll nominate her for a fucking academy award, Irene. Since this is a ‘role’.”

(Y/N) gave the both of them a confused look, uncrossing her legs to recross them again this time opposite. “What do you mean I’ll have to be a good actress Mr.-?”

“Stan.”

“Mr. Stan?” (Y/N) asked, furrowing her brows.

“No, my last name is Hurley but you’re to call me Stan. Thought that was obvious, are we sure she’s as smart as you say Irene?”

Irene gave Stan an exhausted look. “(Y/N), we’re assigning you as a handler - of sorts.” Irene began, leaning forward to pick up Mitch’s file. “Here’s your charge,” Irene held the file out to (Y/N), who took it immediately.

She opened it and began reading the front page, here eyes stopping on the picture of the attractive agent before hurrying over the information provided.

Name: Mitch Rapp

Age: 26 Years

D.O.B: 03 . 28 . 1991 - Charlotte, North Carolina

Height: 5’10

Weight: 180 LBS

Marital status: Single

Occupation: (redacted)

Financial situation: (redacted)

Education: Degree in international business, Syracuse University.

Languages: Arabic, French, German, Italian, Persian.

Psychiatric Evaluation: Mood swings, Night sweats (former), Obsessive delusions (former).

Alias: (redacted)

Lead: Stan Hurley

Training: Weapons, Marksmanship, Hand-To-Hand Combat, Explosives.

Department: (redacted)

Operations: (redacted)

Place of Residence: (redacted)

Handler: (no known)

Level Of Clearance: (redacted)

(Y/N) looked up at Irene, sighing a bit. “I’m going to be watching after someone my own age?” She closed the file, resting it against her leg.

Irene shook her head, “not exactly.” She cleared her throat. “You’re going to be.. Handling him. You’re going to be in charge of making sure he doesn’t get himself into any more… lets just call it trouble.”

“So I’m going to be made to babysit him? If he’s so highly trained why am I necessary? I don’t feel like someone like him, a troublemaker, would like someone holding his hand in the field.”

Stan laughed, “not exactly either. You’re not going in the field with him, (Y/N). And you won’t be holding his hand and walking him along.”

“What will I be doing?” (Y/N) asked, opening the file again to look over the rest of the pages.

“Well,” Stan started, a smarmy grin stretching across his thin lips.

—————

Tags: @ellie-bee242 , @redstringlovers , @lovefilledtragedy

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