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pirateygoodnessRefer to Part 1 for headers.
Part 2
The important thing is not how many false starts it took for the two of them to get out of bed and dressed and not kissing each other. The important thing is that Blake is showered, wearing a fresh suit and a clean shirt, and Leighton is sitting on the opposite end of the bed with her clothes on and not looking too badly like she's spent the past few hours letting herself get talked out of them. "So," Blake says, as she fiddles with her hair in the mirror. Getting it to look right is harder than it seems. "There's a fifth delivery in the works for me?"
"Yes."
She meets Leighton's eyes through her reflection, suddenly serious. "This is the delivery we're going to have to swap, then? The one Chace has a plan for."
The girl nods, and Blake almost wants to look away. She really is lovely. "I'm going to have to meet with Mikhail. To accept the delivery. I haven't seen him in a while, and I expect he'll want to do something threatening to remind me that he's a very frightening man."
Leighton nods again, half-smiling. Blake turns away from the mirror, towards from Leighton. Her hair is close enough to perfect that it's not worth fussing any longer. "You're not to look at me when we're in the room together. No matter what he does to me, no matter what either of them do to you. It's very important that you don't look at me."
The girl stands in a huff, clearly half-offended. "Blake, I'm a professional, I think I -" Blake crosses the room to wrap her hands around Leighton's wrists, interrupting. This is important and she's not listening and oh god, they could both be killed.
"Leighton." She meets the girl's eyes again. She can feel herself biting her own lip, trying to hold back from just one last kiss - this is more difficult than she thought it would be. "I need you not to look at me. Do you understand?"
Leighton purses her lips, sullen, but she nods. It's almost time for them to leave - Leighton first, Blake twenty minutes later, and she won't be at Mikhail's until later than that because she's got a date with Chace and an unmarked delivery van. This is going to be done with, the end is so close she can almost taste it, but all of this would be so much easier if she weren't preoccupied with the memory of Leighton's hands all over her.
The girl smiles, and moves one of those hands to cup Blake's cheek. "Hey," she says, and presses her lips to the corner of Blake's mouth. "I'll see you soon."
Blake pulls Leighton in for a proper kiss, too-rough and too much tongue and not nearly enough to hold her over until the next time they're alone. "That's what worries me," she says.
And then the girl is gone.
Blake knows of three different ways to kill someone over the telephone, and she's thinking about each of them in turn when she gets the phone call from Mr. Badenov's office. It is, of course, her old-new friend Dmitri, who would very much enjoy it if she would join him and his associates for a collegial meeting of minds in an abandoned car garage in one of the seedier parts of London. Blake - that is, Mr. Lively - would be nothing short of delighted to attend.
Blake would really rather not.
When she arrives, she's so nervous - over seeing Leighton, over making this delivery without giving herself away, over whether or not Leighton will lose her head and do something stupid when she gets manhandled by Mikhail's more charming associates - that she has to hold her hat to keep herself from fidgeting. A slim, weaselly gentleman whose name she doesn't bother to remember shows her in, oozing self-importance and positively reeking of sweat and sex and last night's vodka. Clearly, the Russian mafia has yet to budget for daily showers.
The gentleman and his pungent aroma show her into a room, not unlike the one where she first made Mr. Badenov's acquaintance. It's dimly-lit, slightly drippy, and the sudden smell of motor oil and gunpowder makes Blake want to sneeze. Across the room, just underneath a single bank of naked bulbs, Mikhail is reclining in an incongruous-looking plush armchair, Sergei on his right and Dmitri to his left. Leighton, Blake is horrified to note, is pressed against Sergei's side as if he's trying to quite literally join her to him at the hip, his meaty fingers perilously close to the side of her breast.
The sudden urge to hit something, very hard, makes Blake avoid glancing at Leighton's face.
"Mr Lively," Mikhail says, a suddenly welcome distraction. Blake nods at him, gestures vaguely with her hat in something that she hopes looks respectful. He nods back.
"Sir," she says, shifting from foot to foot, looking directly into his face. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Business, Mister Lively," he says, and Dmitri raises his hand to cover a chuckle. "You Americans. I hear from Mister Dmitri how much you love business."
Blake ducks her head, not quite able to hide a blush. "I guess." It takes her a minute to remember what she's supposed to do, to remember that she's a greasy, fidgety American man-for-hire in an ill-fitting suit. "Paying business?"
Mikhail smiles, trying for benevolence and appearing instead as if he's swallowed something awful. "Of course."
"Alright then," Blake says, bouncing on her toes. "What is it this time?"
"A very, very special package," Mikhail says. He's not smiling any longer. Behind him, Sergei grunts out something that might be a laugh, and pulls the girl even closer to his bulk. He's palming her breast openly, now, and Blake can't bear to even look at it. "You will be especially careful." Blake smells, rather than feels, the doorman's hand on her shoulder. That kind of careful, then.
"I'm always careful, aren't I?"
Mikhail nods, and Dmitri brings a large, elaborately wrapped birthday present from behind the armchair. The doorman tightens his grip on Blake's shoulder, enough that she's sure he'll leave marks. "You will be even more careful than that. This is a very special package."
Blake tries to grin, easy and confident, but her knees are giving way a little under pressure from the doorman's hand. "So I should be especially careful?" she asks.
Mikhail nods once more. Dmitri pats the present, almost lovingly, in agreement. "Exactly. And Mister Lively?" She looks right into his eyes, and the eagerness in them makes her feel slightly sick. Something strikes from behind her, hitting her hard in the back, bringing her to her knees. "If you are not careful, we will know." The doorman kicks again, hard enough that Blake drops her hat. "And we will not be very happy gentlemen."
From somewhere to her left, Blake hears a woman gasp, and she grits her teeth. Leighton. She watches the ground - not trusting herself to look away from the girl, waiting for further instructions. When they don't come, she dusts off her hat and waits. These sorts of meetings, Blake has found, have a way of ending if one only sits long enough.
Sure enough, after a moment, someone claps and the crisp click of dress shoes (and high heels, but she's not thinking about that right now) leave the room, one by one. Until Blake is alone, with the single gaudiest birthday gift she's ever seen in her life. It's addressed to Dearest Alexandra, and Blake smiles to herself.
If she was going to build a bomb, she'd probably name it after a woman, too.
There's a rendezvous she's already planned out with Chace, and all she has to do is make it without getting stopped or followed or killed - at this point, that hardly feels like a task. The plan, simply put, is this: to switch out the package full of contraband explosives for a package full of explosives sponsored by Her Majesty, to be detonated once they reach the package's destination. It feels almost too simple, but then - the best plans often do.
Carrying the package is awkward, conspicuous, not helped by the fact that she's trying not to limp over the blows from Mikhail's doorman. She's well aware that she's drawing stares from passersby as she wanders from damp, seedy alleys into slightly drier, slightly more upper-class ones. It's almost impossible that she's not being followed, and she's almost tempted to tip her hat to Mikhail for that. Greasy and blunt-force as he can be, the man is still clever.
The meeting with Chace is in the storefront to a barber shop, and Blake has to smile a little at the irony as she walks in, the bell above the door jingling in her wake. When Chace - dressed in an apron, razor tucked behind his ear - looks up at her, hair falling across his eyes like he's one of the Beatles, she can't help but relax. There's just something about the man that makes Blake feel like being followed and ambushed by Russian mobsters isn't anything they can't handle.
Chace whistles, looking her up and down. "Someone roughed you up, Mister Lively." Blake doesn't respond. The man, at least, has the decency to look a bit chastened, as he takes the package from her. He grins, obviously excited. "This is what we get to replace? Oh, this is going to be the most."
Blake jams her hands into her pockets, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. "Is she here yet?"
"Is who here yet?" Chace's reply is absent, distracted, as he rattles the box with one hands and starts to make notes.
"Miss - "
"Oh, her," he says, winking at Blake over ridiculous curls of satin ribbon. "I haven't seen her around."
Blake takes off her hat, twirling it between her hands. Leighton hasn't arrived yet. That doesn't mean anything - it doesn't mean she's been killed, doesn't mean she's been found out. It just means she has to be patient.
Four hours later, and Blake is past 'patient' and onto 'pacing.' Every time she passes Chace, she can hear him sigh like he wants to tie her to a chair, but she just can't help herself.
"Leighton isn't here," she says for what must be the third time that hour.
"I know that," he answers, as huffy as a man can reasonably be. "She wasn't here the last three times you said that, either."
Blake sets her hat down on the windowsill, then takes it off and twirls it between her hands once, twice. "She was supposed to be here. There's got to be a reason she's not - she should be here."
"Jesus, Blake, what did you do, knock her up?" Blake shakes her head, no. She doesn't quite know how to explain that she's done something worse. "Then sit in that chair for five minutes, or I swear I'll pop you one. I'm almost finished."
Blake sits heavily, legs sprawled in front of her like she's a sullen teenager. There's some small part of her that's a little ashamed, that knows secret agents shouldn't lower themselves to sulking over women. But there's also a much larger part of her that remembers Leighton's gasp just hours ago; that remembers the way Leighton felt under her yesterday, sweet and yielding and lovely. All she wants to do is feel the curve of Leighton's waist under her hands and know that she's here, safe.
Evidently, that's too much for Blake to ask.
"Alright," Chace says, and Blake leaps out of her seat. He rolls his eyes at her, patting the package. It looks exactly as it did when she first arrived, and Blake has to admit to being a little impressed. Chace may seem like a dim-witted schoolboy more than some of the time, but this is an absolutely masterful piece of work. "We're finished."
"But Leighton -" Blake starts, and Chace stares at her, hard.
"We," he says, pressing the box into her hands, "are finished. You will deliver the package, because it's your job, and I'll wait here for Miss Meester."
"But what if she's -"
He takes her by the shoulders and shakes hard, until her teeth rattle. "Blake. I don't know what the hell happened to you, but you're being a goddamn woman about this girl and I can't have that. This is work, you hear me?" He punches her in the arm, harder. "Man up."
Blake shakes her head, nods. She picks up her hat and straightens it on her head, suddenly purposeful. Chace is right and she knows it. "Thanks," she says. "But you won't -"
Chace punches her other arm, but his eyes are gentle, and he nods. "I won't set anything off until I see her. Don't worry."
"Right, then."
And Blake leaves.
Dearest Alexandra lives, evidently, on a yacht. Blake is only a little surprised.
She's met on the gangplank by none other than Sergei. No, she realizes, after a moment, not Sergei. This one has a beard. He's at least as large as Sergei, though, and appears to be at least twice as stupid. To her horror, he's holding Leighton to his side like a teddy bear. Blake can't help herself - she looks right at Leighton, and god that's her first mistake. "Delivery for you," she says into the gentleman's chest. She tries for gruff and boyish, but it comes out a little more tender than she'd hoped. Leighton's mouth twitches up, almost a smile.
The man stares at her for a long moment, and she can hear him breathing down at her. "It's not my birthday."
Blake looks up at his face. "Well I should hope not. Unless your name is actually Alexandra."
There's a grunt. That was either the password, or exactly the wrong thing to say. She waits a moment, hoping she'll find out. "It's good, then." He takes the package in one arm, Leighton still pressed to his other side. "Miss Alexandra will enjoy her gift very much, I think."
He stares at Blake. It takes some time before she realizes she's meant to laugh.
And then, the man and Leighton turn to leave. Leighton looks back at Blake, eyes wide and frantic, and Blake feels her blood run cold. Leighton's not leaving. Leighton can't leave. Oh god oh god, Leighton can't leave and Chace is going to detonate that stupid birthday present and that can't, can't happen. "Miss Leighton," she says, trying to keep the edge of panic out of her voice. The man freezes, his back to Blake, and before she can even think about what she should do she leans in and reaches forward and taps the girl's behind.
Leighton jumps a little, giggling.
Her companion turns to face Blake, frowning down at her through his beard. He stares, again. This is a terrible, stupid idea, but it's too late to back out now. She looks Leighton in the eye, and winks, tipping her hat. "It was good to see you again."
Leighton catches on fast, and nods appreciatively. "Likewise, Mister Lively," she says, and damn her they're on the edge of being killed and she's still driving Blake to distraction.
"We should try to meet more often." Blake says, leaning in as if there isn't a large wall of a man looming next to them.
"We should." Leighton's edging away from her gentleman friend as she speaks, moving closer to Blake. There's a grunt. Blake suspects their friend may have noticed.
"Perhaps right now," Blake says, and offers her arm.
Leighton giggles, coquettish, and accepts. "Well," she says, and takes a larger step closer. "If you insist."
It can't be that easy, won't be that easy, but it's worth a try. Blake smiles, sparing a glance at Leighton's gentleman friend. He's reaching into his jacket, and Blake can't calm her nerves enough to resist taking a step. "I most certainly insist."
They make it five more steps before Blake is suddenly aware of the sharp crack of guns, firing again and again, and Leighton's hand around her wrist and they're running, slower than they should be but as quickly as they can. Blake doesn't even think to fire her own pistol, doesn't worry about anything but Leighton's grip on her arm and her own stride, pulling the girl away, up the gangplank, across what feels like miles of unprotected concrete and into the first building she finds. It's abandoned, but clean and not too dark and there's a window facing the docks.
Blake crouches against the wall and pulls the girl down, concentrating on the sound of Leighton's breathing and her own heart loud in her ears and the sharp sounds of gunfire, still closer than she'd like.
Then, something is hot. And loud. Things are hitting her hat, and something feels like it's pushing at her, back and back and back. She gropes in the dark for Leighton, suddenly not sure why the window she'd been leaning against is so far away. She sits up - when did she lie down? - and notices that something's on fire.
A boat. Alright, then. A boat is on fire.
Leighton stirs to her left, finding Blake's hand, and dimly she realizes what's happened. Chace. Chace set off the explosives, that stupid, wonderful boy.
"Leighton," Blake says, dusting herself off. The girl groans, moving closer. "Are you alright?"
Leighton chokes out a laugh, still patting herself down for broken bones. "Was that -?"
"Chace."
Leighton shakes her head. "That boy."
Blake nudges her in the side. "I think, technically, he's a man."
"My mistake." Leighton looks up, and Blake suddenly needs a moment. The girl's hair is mussed and she's watching Blake, wild-eyed, and it's nothing short of lovely. "Blake," she continues, and Blake realizes she's been staring.
She looks down, away, back at the yacht. Anywhere but Leighton. "Yes. Sorry."
Then there's a hand on her cheek and a thumb tracing the edge of her lips, almost reverent. "Are you alright?"
Blake can't help but shiver. "Yes."
Leighton's mouth finds hers, softly. It's only been hours, and Blake shouldn't be hungry for this. She shouldn't be leaning into this, pressing her body against Leighton and letting the girl lie back and pull them both down. But she is and they are and Leighton's licking her way into Blake's mouth, with the kind of deep, whimpering kisses that Blake can't help but match.
She rolls onto Leighton, resting her arms on either side of Leighton's head. Leighton's hands find Blake's shirt front and Blake knows she should protest, knows she should say something. But her buttons are coming undone and Leighton's running her hands across Blake's chest, palming Blake's breasts and kneading until Blake groans, completely undone. Almost.
"Leighton," she says, and the hands on her breasts still. "Are you sure?"
"Why would I not be?"
"There's probably glass all over the floor. And besides," Blake says, stroking Leighton's hair. "Someone might see in."
Leighton pulls Blake even closer, eyes dancing, and arches her hips up. "Someone might." Blake's hand finds the space between Leighton's thighs, almost unthinking, and the damp heat she can feel even through satin is enough to make both of them groan. Dimly, she's aware that Leighton's still speaking. "But we just survived an exploding yacht. And I know I'm very, very glad we're alive."
"Really?"
Blake presses her knuckles against Leighton's core, and when the girl whimpers it's all Blake can do not to undress her right there. "Very glad, Mister Lively."
"Blake," she corrects, nipping at Leighton's mouth.
"But I can assure you," Leighton says, rolling her hips against Blake's hand. "I'd be much gladder if I were wearing just a little less."
"Just a little less? Did you want me to help you with your shoes then?"
"Blake," the girl says, angling her chin up for a kiss. Blake is more than happy to oblige.
"Your hair?" Blake murmurs against Leighton's jaw, tasting skin and sweat and just a little soot. "Is it done up too tightly?"
Leighton wraps her fingers around Blake's wrist and she presses them up, grinding down until it's Blake's turn to bite back a whimper. "Blake."
Right, then.
Blake wants, desperately, to be chivalrous. She wants to be the kind of woman who refuses, who takes Leighton somewhere beautiful and warm and clean and presses her into the pillows gently, lovingly. But oh, when Leighton's hips are rocking against her hand and she's making those little impatient noises, the fact of where they actually are doesn't seem so important at all. Because Leighton wants this, and Blake wants nothing more than for Leighton to get everything she asks for.
So Blake hooks her thumb under Leighton's waistband and tugs, thanking the lord for little skirts and even smaller undergarments, and hopes nobody will think to look in at the noises Leighton's making in time with her hips. She's grinding against air, waiting for Blake's touch, and when Blake's fingers slide home into wet heat, Leighton arches up and sighs with relief. It's beautiful, and Blake has to bite her own lip at the sight of it, of Leighton warm and slippery against her hands. Of Leighton here and under her, and Blake won't ever say it, but she was so scared that Leighton wouldn't be, ever again.
Blake reaches her thumb out to draw slow, stuttering circles against Leighton's core and the girl's hips move to match her, squirming in time. All Blake can hear is Leighton's voice, whimpering her name over and over, louder than she should, and then Leighton is breaking around Blake's hand and arching up, shuddering.
"Leighton," Blake says, almost reverently. She takes back her hand and leans in, pressing her lips to the curve of Leighton's throat, her jaw, the swell of her breasts.
"Blake," someone says, and Blake freezes. It's a man's voice. Below her, she can feel Leighton fumbling at the buttons on her shirt, covering Blake up.
There's a crunch nearby, boots on gravel. Blake chances a look up, and oh. Well then. It's only Chace.
"Lively," Chace says, and he's laughing as he offers Blake an arm up. "You stud. I knew you had something going on, but golly."
He's either ignoring or hasn't noticed Leighton's underthings next to their shoes, but he's certainly noticed the way Blake is blushing to the tips of her ears. "Chace."
"What do you think?" he says, nodding towards the yacht, smoldering in the water. "My timing is the best."
Blake spares a glance at Leighton, and the boy at least has the decency to look a bit guilty. "It certainly is singular," she says, voice embarrassingly breathless.
Chace shuffles on his feet for a moment, then bounces as if remembering something. "MI6 wants you." Blake can't quite suppress a groan of frustration, and Chace punches her in the arm with a laugh. "Ed likes to debrief right away. Nothing I can do."
Business is, if nothing else, business. Blake shrugs. "Well. I'd hate to keep our dear Mr. Westwick waiting."
She would, of course, love nothing more than to let Ed sit in his office and twiddle his thumbs while she backs Leighton up against a wall and kisses her breathless. But professionalism, she knows, is probably more important.
"Go on then," Leighton says, smoothing down her dress as she stands. Her underthings are still on the floor next to her shoes, but she seems entirely unconcerned as she wanders towards Blake, hips swaying. She rises up on her toes and kisses Blake, deeply and not at all chastely until Blake can't quite remember why speaking with Ed is important in the first place. "Stud."
Blake tucks a strand of Leighton's hair behind her ear, aware of the way Chace is carefully not watching them. "You're not going to let me hear the end of that, are you?"
"Probably not for a while," Leighton says, eyes dancing.
Blake spares a glance at Chace, checking to see that he's still examining his shoelaces, and leans in to kiss Leighton one last time. "Will I see you again?" Blake can feel Leighton's nod against her cheek. "When?"
"I don't know," Leighton says, and leans up to press as kiss to Blake's lower lip. "I'll try to fit you in sometime."
Blake pulls back, not quite sure if she's joking, and Leighton winks. Damn her.
Penn calls Blake, three days after she's been debriefed by Ed (and debriefed by Leighton, infinitely more enjoyably). Blake is in her apartment - soon to be someone else's apartment - reading the paper. His voice, warm and congratulatory, is the most familiar thing she's heard in weeks.
"I hear you and Miss Meester have developed quite the working relationship," he says, after they've discussed weather and the state of American football and the details of Blake's work with the Russians. Blake can hear the smile in his voice. Clearly, he's been speaking with Chace.
"We certainly have," Blake says. She suddenly misses him terribly.
"Well," Penn says, and coughs away from the receiver in a way that just might be a laugh. "Glad to see that good American sense of camaraderie has done you a service, Blake."
Blake has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She owes the man a drink. "Not as glad as I am, Mr. Badgley. I assure you." He laughs, openly this time, and Blake gives him a long while to finish before she takes a deep breath and says, all in one go: "Sir, with your permission, I wonder if it would be possible for me to stay in Europe a while longer?"
She shouldn't be nervous about it. She shouldn't be worried about asking.
"Any special reason?" Penn sounds suspicious, but then, he always is suspicious. That's why he's done so well for himself at the CIA. As Blake thinks about her answer, she notices Leighton wander out of the shower, gloriously nude. Blake can't stop herself from licking her lips.
"Not really," she says, when she finally remembers Penn on the other end of the line. And Leighton, damn her, presses against Blake from behind and sneaks her palms under Blake's shirt, pressing them flat to Blake's breasts. She tries to hide a deeply unprofessional sound in a cough. "I suppose you could call it personal curiosity." There's a pause, and Penn makes some sort of thoughtful noise. But Leighton's kissing the back of her neck, making Blake's eyes roll back, and that's all she can think about at the moment.
Dimly, Blake hears herself say, "I hear Russia's supposed to be lovely this time of year."
Part 2
The important thing is not how many false starts it took for the two of them to get out of bed and dressed and not kissing each other. The important thing is that Blake is showered, wearing a fresh suit and a clean shirt, and Leighton is sitting on the opposite end of the bed with her clothes on and not looking too badly like she's spent the past few hours letting herself get talked out of them. "So," Blake says, as she fiddles with her hair in the mirror. Getting it to look right is harder than it seems. "There's a fifth delivery in the works for me?"
"Yes."
She meets Leighton's eyes through her reflection, suddenly serious. "This is the delivery we're going to have to swap, then? The one Chace has a plan for."
The girl nods, and Blake almost wants to look away. She really is lovely. "I'm going to have to meet with Mikhail. To accept the delivery. I haven't seen him in a while, and I expect he'll want to do something threatening to remind me that he's a very frightening man."
Leighton nods again, half-smiling. Blake turns away from the mirror, towards from Leighton. Her hair is close enough to perfect that it's not worth fussing any longer. "You're not to look at me when we're in the room together. No matter what he does to me, no matter what either of them do to you. It's very important that you don't look at me."
The girl stands in a huff, clearly half-offended. "Blake, I'm a professional, I think I -" Blake crosses the room to wrap her hands around Leighton's wrists, interrupting. This is important and she's not listening and oh god, they could both be killed.
"Leighton." She meets the girl's eyes again. She can feel herself biting her own lip, trying to hold back from just one last kiss - this is more difficult than she thought it would be. "I need you not to look at me. Do you understand?"
Leighton purses her lips, sullen, but she nods. It's almost time for them to leave - Leighton first, Blake twenty minutes later, and she won't be at Mikhail's until later than that because she's got a date with Chace and an unmarked delivery van. This is going to be done with, the end is so close she can almost taste it, but all of this would be so much easier if she weren't preoccupied with the memory of Leighton's hands all over her.
The girl smiles, and moves one of those hands to cup Blake's cheek. "Hey," she says, and presses her lips to the corner of Blake's mouth. "I'll see you soon."
Blake pulls Leighton in for a proper kiss, too-rough and too much tongue and not nearly enough to hold her over until the next time they're alone. "That's what worries me," she says.
And then the girl is gone.
Blake knows of three different ways to kill someone over the telephone, and she's thinking about each of them in turn when she gets the phone call from Mr. Badenov's office. It is, of course, her old-new friend Dmitri, who would very much enjoy it if she would join him and his associates for a collegial meeting of minds in an abandoned car garage in one of the seedier parts of London. Blake - that is, Mr. Lively - would be nothing short of delighted to attend.
Blake would really rather not.
When she arrives, she's so nervous - over seeing Leighton, over making this delivery without giving herself away, over whether or not Leighton will lose her head and do something stupid when she gets manhandled by Mikhail's more charming associates - that she has to hold her hat to keep herself from fidgeting. A slim, weaselly gentleman whose name she doesn't bother to remember shows her in, oozing self-importance and positively reeking of sweat and sex and last night's vodka. Clearly, the Russian mafia has yet to budget for daily showers.
The gentleman and his pungent aroma show her into a room, not unlike the one where she first made Mr. Badenov's acquaintance. It's dimly-lit, slightly drippy, and the sudden smell of motor oil and gunpowder makes Blake want to sneeze. Across the room, just underneath a single bank of naked bulbs, Mikhail is reclining in an incongruous-looking plush armchair, Sergei on his right and Dmitri to his left. Leighton, Blake is horrified to note, is pressed against Sergei's side as if he's trying to quite literally join her to him at the hip, his meaty fingers perilously close to the side of her breast.
The sudden urge to hit something, very hard, makes Blake avoid glancing at Leighton's face.
"Mr Lively," Mikhail says, a suddenly welcome distraction. Blake nods at him, gestures vaguely with her hat in something that she hopes looks respectful. He nods back.
"Sir," she says, shifting from foot to foot, looking directly into his face. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Business, Mister Lively," he says, and Dmitri raises his hand to cover a chuckle. "You Americans. I hear from Mister Dmitri how much you love business."
Blake ducks her head, not quite able to hide a blush. "I guess." It takes her a minute to remember what she's supposed to do, to remember that she's a greasy, fidgety American man-for-hire in an ill-fitting suit. "Paying business?"
Mikhail smiles, trying for benevolence and appearing instead as if he's swallowed something awful. "Of course."
"Alright then," Blake says, bouncing on her toes. "What is it this time?"
"A very, very special package," Mikhail says. He's not smiling any longer. Behind him, Sergei grunts out something that might be a laugh, and pulls the girl even closer to his bulk. He's palming her breast openly, now, and Blake can't bear to even look at it. "You will be especially careful." Blake smells, rather than feels, the doorman's hand on her shoulder. That kind of careful, then.
"I'm always careful, aren't I?"
Mikhail nods, and Dmitri brings a large, elaborately wrapped birthday present from behind the armchair. The doorman tightens his grip on Blake's shoulder, enough that she's sure he'll leave marks. "You will be even more careful than that. This is a very special package."
Blake tries to grin, easy and confident, but her knees are giving way a little under pressure from the doorman's hand. "So I should be especially careful?" she asks.
Mikhail nods once more. Dmitri pats the present, almost lovingly, in agreement. "Exactly. And Mister Lively?" She looks right into his eyes, and the eagerness in them makes her feel slightly sick. Something strikes from behind her, hitting her hard in the back, bringing her to her knees. "If you are not careful, we will know." The doorman kicks again, hard enough that Blake drops her hat. "And we will not be very happy gentlemen."
From somewhere to her left, Blake hears a woman gasp, and she grits her teeth. Leighton. She watches the ground - not trusting herself to look away from the girl, waiting for further instructions. When they don't come, she dusts off her hat and waits. These sorts of meetings, Blake has found, have a way of ending if one only sits long enough.
Sure enough, after a moment, someone claps and the crisp click of dress shoes (and high heels, but she's not thinking about that right now) leave the room, one by one. Until Blake is alone, with the single gaudiest birthday gift she's ever seen in her life. It's addressed to Dearest Alexandra, and Blake smiles to herself.
If she was going to build a bomb, she'd probably name it after a woman, too.
There's a rendezvous she's already planned out with Chace, and all she has to do is make it without getting stopped or followed or killed - at this point, that hardly feels like a task. The plan, simply put, is this: to switch out the package full of contraband explosives for a package full of explosives sponsored by Her Majesty, to be detonated once they reach the package's destination. It feels almost too simple, but then - the best plans often do.
Carrying the package is awkward, conspicuous, not helped by the fact that she's trying not to limp over the blows from Mikhail's doorman. She's well aware that she's drawing stares from passersby as she wanders from damp, seedy alleys into slightly drier, slightly more upper-class ones. It's almost impossible that she's not being followed, and she's almost tempted to tip her hat to Mikhail for that. Greasy and blunt-force as he can be, the man is still clever.
The meeting with Chace is in the storefront to a barber shop, and Blake has to smile a little at the irony as she walks in, the bell above the door jingling in her wake. When Chace - dressed in an apron, razor tucked behind his ear - looks up at her, hair falling across his eyes like he's one of the Beatles, she can't help but relax. There's just something about the man that makes Blake feel like being followed and ambushed by Russian mobsters isn't anything they can't handle.
Chace whistles, looking her up and down. "Someone roughed you up, Mister Lively." Blake doesn't respond. The man, at least, has the decency to look a bit chastened, as he takes the package from her. He grins, obviously excited. "This is what we get to replace? Oh, this is going to be the most."
Blake jams her hands into her pockets, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. "Is she here yet?"
"Is who here yet?" Chace's reply is absent, distracted, as he rattles the box with one hands and starts to make notes.
"Miss - "
"Oh, her," he says, winking at Blake over ridiculous curls of satin ribbon. "I haven't seen her around."
Blake takes off her hat, twirling it between her hands. Leighton hasn't arrived yet. That doesn't mean anything - it doesn't mean she's been killed, doesn't mean she's been found out. It just means she has to be patient.
Four hours later, and Blake is past 'patient' and onto 'pacing.' Every time she passes Chace, she can hear him sigh like he wants to tie her to a chair, but she just can't help herself.
"Leighton isn't here," she says for what must be the third time that hour.
"I know that," he answers, as huffy as a man can reasonably be. "She wasn't here the last three times you said that, either."
Blake sets her hat down on the windowsill, then takes it off and twirls it between her hands once, twice. "She was supposed to be here. There's got to be a reason she's not - she should be here."
"Jesus, Blake, what did you do, knock her up?" Blake shakes her head, no. She doesn't quite know how to explain that she's done something worse. "Then sit in that chair for five minutes, or I swear I'll pop you one. I'm almost finished."
Blake sits heavily, legs sprawled in front of her like she's a sullen teenager. There's some small part of her that's a little ashamed, that knows secret agents shouldn't lower themselves to sulking over women. But there's also a much larger part of her that remembers Leighton's gasp just hours ago; that remembers the way Leighton felt under her yesterday, sweet and yielding and lovely. All she wants to do is feel the curve of Leighton's waist under her hands and know that she's here, safe.
Evidently, that's too much for Blake to ask.
"Alright," Chace says, and Blake leaps out of her seat. He rolls his eyes at her, patting the package. It looks exactly as it did when she first arrived, and Blake has to admit to being a little impressed. Chace may seem like a dim-witted schoolboy more than some of the time, but this is an absolutely masterful piece of work. "We're finished."
"But Leighton -" Blake starts, and Chace stares at her, hard.
"We," he says, pressing the box into her hands, "are finished. You will deliver the package, because it's your job, and I'll wait here for Miss Meester."
"But what if she's -"
He takes her by the shoulders and shakes hard, until her teeth rattle. "Blake. I don't know what the hell happened to you, but you're being a goddamn woman about this girl and I can't have that. This is work, you hear me?" He punches her in the arm, harder. "Man up."
Blake shakes her head, nods. She picks up her hat and straightens it on her head, suddenly purposeful. Chace is right and she knows it. "Thanks," she says. "But you won't -"
Chace punches her other arm, but his eyes are gentle, and he nods. "I won't set anything off until I see her. Don't worry."
"Right, then."
And Blake leaves.
Dearest Alexandra lives, evidently, on a yacht. Blake is only a little surprised.
She's met on the gangplank by none other than Sergei. No, she realizes, after a moment, not Sergei. This one has a beard. He's at least as large as Sergei, though, and appears to be at least twice as stupid. To her horror, he's holding Leighton to his side like a teddy bear. Blake can't help herself - she looks right at Leighton, and god that's her first mistake. "Delivery for you," she says into the gentleman's chest. She tries for gruff and boyish, but it comes out a little more tender than she'd hoped. Leighton's mouth twitches up, almost a smile.
The man stares at her for a long moment, and she can hear him breathing down at her. "It's not my birthday."
Blake looks up at his face. "Well I should hope not. Unless your name is actually Alexandra."
There's a grunt. That was either the password, or exactly the wrong thing to say. She waits a moment, hoping she'll find out. "It's good, then." He takes the package in one arm, Leighton still pressed to his other side. "Miss Alexandra will enjoy her gift very much, I think."
He stares at Blake. It takes some time before she realizes she's meant to laugh.
And then, the man and Leighton turn to leave. Leighton looks back at Blake, eyes wide and frantic, and Blake feels her blood run cold. Leighton's not leaving. Leighton can't leave. Oh god oh god, Leighton can't leave and Chace is going to detonate that stupid birthday present and that can't, can't happen. "Miss Leighton," she says, trying to keep the edge of panic out of her voice. The man freezes, his back to Blake, and before she can even think about what she should do she leans in and reaches forward and taps the girl's behind.
Leighton jumps a little, giggling.
Her companion turns to face Blake, frowning down at her through his beard. He stares, again. This is a terrible, stupid idea, but it's too late to back out now. She looks Leighton in the eye, and winks, tipping her hat. "It was good to see you again."
Leighton catches on fast, and nods appreciatively. "Likewise, Mister Lively," she says, and damn her they're on the edge of being killed and she's still driving Blake to distraction.
"We should try to meet more often." Blake says, leaning in as if there isn't a large wall of a man looming next to them.
"We should." Leighton's edging away from her gentleman friend as she speaks, moving closer to Blake. There's a grunt. Blake suspects their friend may have noticed.
"Perhaps right now," Blake says, and offers her arm.
Leighton giggles, coquettish, and accepts. "Well," she says, and takes a larger step closer. "If you insist."
It can't be that easy, won't be that easy, but it's worth a try. Blake smiles, sparing a glance at Leighton's gentleman friend. He's reaching into his jacket, and Blake can't calm her nerves enough to resist taking a step. "I most certainly insist."
They make it five more steps before Blake is suddenly aware of the sharp crack of guns, firing again and again, and Leighton's hand around her wrist and they're running, slower than they should be but as quickly as they can. Blake doesn't even think to fire her own pistol, doesn't worry about anything but Leighton's grip on her arm and her own stride, pulling the girl away, up the gangplank, across what feels like miles of unprotected concrete and into the first building she finds. It's abandoned, but clean and not too dark and there's a window facing the docks.
Blake crouches against the wall and pulls the girl down, concentrating on the sound of Leighton's breathing and her own heart loud in her ears and the sharp sounds of gunfire, still closer than she'd like.
Then, something is hot. And loud. Things are hitting her hat, and something feels like it's pushing at her, back and back and back. She gropes in the dark for Leighton, suddenly not sure why the window she'd been leaning against is so far away. She sits up - when did she lie down? - and notices that something's on fire.
A boat. Alright, then. A boat is on fire.
Leighton stirs to her left, finding Blake's hand, and dimly she realizes what's happened. Chace. Chace set off the explosives, that stupid, wonderful boy.
"Leighton," Blake says, dusting herself off. The girl groans, moving closer. "Are you alright?"
Leighton chokes out a laugh, still patting herself down for broken bones. "Was that -?"
"Chace."
Leighton shakes her head. "That boy."
Blake nudges her in the side. "I think, technically, he's a man."
"My mistake." Leighton looks up, and Blake suddenly needs a moment. The girl's hair is mussed and she's watching Blake, wild-eyed, and it's nothing short of lovely. "Blake," she continues, and Blake realizes she's been staring.
She looks down, away, back at the yacht. Anywhere but Leighton. "Yes. Sorry."
Then there's a hand on her cheek and a thumb tracing the edge of her lips, almost reverent. "Are you alright?"
Blake can't help but shiver. "Yes."
Leighton's mouth finds hers, softly. It's only been hours, and Blake shouldn't be hungry for this. She shouldn't be leaning into this, pressing her body against Leighton and letting the girl lie back and pull them both down. But she is and they are and Leighton's licking her way into Blake's mouth, with the kind of deep, whimpering kisses that Blake can't help but match.
She rolls onto Leighton, resting her arms on either side of Leighton's head. Leighton's hands find Blake's shirt front and Blake knows she should protest, knows she should say something. But her buttons are coming undone and Leighton's running her hands across Blake's chest, palming Blake's breasts and kneading until Blake groans, completely undone. Almost.
"Leighton," she says, and the hands on her breasts still. "Are you sure?"
"Why would I not be?"
"There's probably glass all over the floor. And besides," Blake says, stroking Leighton's hair. "Someone might see in."
Leighton pulls Blake even closer, eyes dancing, and arches her hips up. "Someone might." Blake's hand finds the space between Leighton's thighs, almost unthinking, and the damp heat she can feel even through satin is enough to make both of them groan. Dimly, she's aware that Leighton's still speaking. "But we just survived an exploding yacht. And I know I'm very, very glad we're alive."
"Really?"
Blake presses her knuckles against Leighton's core, and when the girl whimpers it's all Blake can do not to undress her right there. "Very glad, Mister Lively."
"Blake," she corrects, nipping at Leighton's mouth.
"But I can assure you," Leighton says, rolling her hips against Blake's hand. "I'd be much gladder if I were wearing just a little less."
"Just a little less? Did you want me to help you with your shoes then?"
"Blake," the girl says, angling her chin up for a kiss. Blake is more than happy to oblige.
"Your hair?" Blake murmurs against Leighton's jaw, tasting skin and sweat and just a little soot. "Is it done up too tightly?"
Leighton wraps her fingers around Blake's wrist and she presses them up, grinding down until it's Blake's turn to bite back a whimper. "Blake."
Right, then.
Blake wants, desperately, to be chivalrous. She wants to be the kind of woman who refuses, who takes Leighton somewhere beautiful and warm and clean and presses her into the pillows gently, lovingly. But oh, when Leighton's hips are rocking against her hand and she's making those little impatient noises, the fact of where they actually are doesn't seem so important at all. Because Leighton wants this, and Blake wants nothing more than for Leighton to get everything she asks for.
So Blake hooks her thumb under Leighton's waistband and tugs, thanking the lord for little skirts and even smaller undergarments, and hopes nobody will think to look in at the noises Leighton's making in time with her hips. She's grinding against air, waiting for Blake's touch, and when Blake's fingers slide home into wet heat, Leighton arches up and sighs with relief. It's beautiful, and Blake has to bite her own lip at the sight of it, of Leighton warm and slippery against her hands. Of Leighton here and under her, and Blake won't ever say it, but she was so scared that Leighton wouldn't be, ever again.
Blake reaches her thumb out to draw slow, stuttering circles against Leighton's core and the girl's hips move to match her, squirming in time. All Blake can hear is Leighton's voice, whimpering her name over and over, louder than she should, and then Leighton is breaking around Blake's hand and arching up, shuddering.
"Leighton," Blake says, almost reverently. She takes back her hand and leans in, pressing her lips to the curve of Leighton's throat, her jaw, the swell of her breasts.
"Blake," someone says, and Blake freezes. It's a man's voice. Below her, she can feel Leighton fumbling at the buttons on her shirt, covering Blake up.
There's a crunch nearby, boots on gravel. Blake chances a look up, and oh. Well then. It's only Chace.
"Lively," Chace says, and he's laughing as he offers Blake an arm up. "You stud. I knew you had something going on, but golly."
He's either ignoring or hasn't noticed Leighton's underthings next to their shoes, but he's certainly noticed the way Blake is blushing to the tips of her ears. "Chace."
"What do you think?" he says, nodding towards the yacht, smoldering in the water. "My timing is the best."
Blake spares a glance at Leighton, and the boy at least has the decency to look a bit guilty. "It certainly is singular," she says, voice embarrassingly breathless.
Chace shuffles on his feet for a moment, then bounces as if remembering something. "MI6 wants you." Blake can't quite suppress a groan of frustration, and Chace punches her in the arm with a laugh. "Ed likes to debrief right away. Nothing I can do."
Business is, if nothing else, business. Blake shrugs. "Well. I'd hate to keep our dear Mr. Westwick waiting."
She would, of course, love nothing more than to let Ed sit in his office and twiddle his thumbs while she backs Leighton up against a wall and kisses her breathless. But professionalism, she knows, is probably more important.
"Go on then," Leighton says, smoothing down her dress as she stands. Her underthings are still on the floor next to her shoes, but she seems entirely unconcerned as she wanders towards Blake, hips swaying. She rises up on her toes and kisses Blake, deeply and not at all chastely until Blake can't quite remember why speaking with Ed is important in the first place. "Stud."
Blake tucks a strand of Leighton's hair behind her ear, aware of the way Chace is carefully not watching them. "You're not going to let me hear the end of that, are you?"
"Probably not for a while," Leighton says, eyes dancing.
Blake spares a glance at Chace, checking to see that he's still examining his shoelaces, and leans in to kiss Leighton one last time. "Will I see you again?" Blake can feel Leighton's nod against her cheek. "When?"
"I don't know," Leighton says, and leans up to press as kiss to Blake's lower lip. "I'll try to fit you in sometime."
Blake pulls back, not quite sure if she's joking, and Leighton winks. Damn her.
Penn calls Blake, three days after she's been debriefed by Ed (and debriefed by Leighton, infinitely more enjoyably). Blake is in her apartment - soon to be someone else's apartment - reading the paper. His voice, warm and congratulatory, is the most familiar thing she's heard in weeks.
"I hear you and Miss Meester have developed quite the working relationship," he says, after they've discussed weather and the state of American football and the details of Blake's work with the Russians. Blake can hear the smile in his voice. Clearly, he's been speaking with Chace.
"We certainly have," Blake says. She suddenly misses him terribly.
"Well," Penn says, and coughs away from the receiver in a way that just might be a laugh. "Glad to see that good American sense of camaraderie has done you a service, Blake."
Blake has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She owes the man a drink. "Not as glad as I am, Mr. Badgley. I assure you." He laughs, openly this time, and Blake gives him a long while to finish before she takes a deep breath and says, all in one go: "Sir, with your permission, I wonder if it would be possible for me to stay in Europe a while longer?"
She shouldn't be nervous about it. She shouldn't be worried about asking.
"Any special reason?" Penn sounds suspicious, but then, he always is suspicious. That's why he's done so well for himself at the CIA. As Blake thinks about her answer, she notices Leighton wander out of the shower, gloriously nude. Blake can't stop herself from licking her lips.
"Not really," she says, when she finally remembers Penn on the other end of the line. And Leighton, damn her, presses against Blake from behind and sneaks her palms under Blake's shirt, pressing them flat to Blake's breasts. She tries to hide a deeply unprofessional sound in a cough. "I suppose you could call it personal curiosity." There's a pause, and Penn makes some sort of thoughtful noise. But Leighton's kissing the back of her neck, making Blake's eyes roll back, and that's all she can think about at the moment.
Dimly, Blake hears herself say, "I hear Russia's supposed to be lovely this time of year."
