The French Resistance is a whole group, but Peggy can't tell you more than those in her own part of the group. The entire group is simply spread out too far, meeting in small cells and groups across the battle front areas, spreading information to the allies, getting right in the middle of the action when they can.
Peggy and her group is just lucky enough to be close enough to any and all fighting that they get plenty of action. That doesn't mean they don't have time to rest, because they do.
That's what they're experiencing right now, a lull in the travel and it's quiet. There's no exchanging information, there's no fighting, and it causes Peggy to not sleep. Getting up she pulls her jacket around her shoulders and crawls out of her tent, seeing a small orange dot - fire. Someone is up and she's certain it's Napoleon. It's always Napoleon. Or Pierre.
She doesn't trust Pierre.
When she sees it's neither of the other two and actually Jacques she's a little surprised. Regardless she doesn't shy away, why should she?
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Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. For fuck’s sake do not throw up.
It wasn’t so much that this was Rebel’s first dead body — he had seen a couple in his forensics classes at the academy — it was more that this was his first fresh dead body. This was his first time standing in a crime scene, staring at what was once a human being, blood still congealing on the floors and wall.
But he was fine. He could do this. He could…
His internal thoughts were cut short by the very real need to dart outside the room and empty the contents of his stomach into the nearest trash can. He might have been the Academy’s Wonderkid, but on practical experience Rebel was sorely lacking. At to make it worst, they had paired him with “the Frenchman”, a legend in FBI circles. One of the greatest criminal profilers in recent history.
And here Rebel had just embarassed himself in front of him in less than five minutes.
Fabulous.
Slinking back in, he mumbled an apology before once more concentrating on the scene around them.
Send “Kissed” and I’ll generate a number from 1 to 45 to determine where your muse has kissed mine and how my muse reacts!
21. Knuckles.
Clint didn't often break down in front of others, and he wasn't entirely sure how it had happened with Jacques. Copious amounts of alcohol had been involved, that was sure, and he was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning, but they'd started talking. One thing had led to another, and somehow Clint had ended up spilling out practically his whole life story.
Maybe it was because Father's Day had just passed, but Clint scrubbed his hand over his face, sniffling as he talked about Harold Barton. He quirked a smile as Jacques took his hand, but the tender kiss to his knuckles caught him off-guard, and he swallowed hard, his eyes tearing up again.
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Dugan hissed as his back connected with the wall, Derner’s body pressed up close to his, pinning him in place. He slid a thigh between Dernier’s legs, his body rolling up against Dernier’s. ”C’mon, mon cher,” he half purrs, half growls against Dernier’s neck, his lips grazing over the warm skin just underneath Dernier’s jaw. ”Don’t get testy with me.”
He grinds up against Dernier, ever nerve on fire with a sweetly aching need. ”Get feisty instead.”
His teeth close down on Dernier’s neck, just enough to tease, as he sucks hard at the salty-sweet skin, doing his damndest to leave mark of his handiwork that Dernier would remember in the morning. He’s been wanting to get his hands on the Frenchman all damn day, and the fastest way to do so had seemed to get Dernier annoyed with him. To bet his blood up and his adrenaline going. To get him feisty, just like Dugan liked him.
[text] How do you say “lick l lick you from your he ad to your toes” in French because that’s whaty I wantto do to you and I want youto undertstyand it corectly.
A wolf and a lion walk into a bar // for howlingfrenchman (v: cry havoc) (closed)
He'd been asleep when the missile hit the transport jet.
Twelve hours in the air with nothing to do and no chance to get himself into any kind of trouble to alleviate the sheer and horrifying boredom of flying had left Volk with little recourse except a nap. He didn't know where they were headed -- never knew where they were headed until they were close to wheels on the ground. They never told him why, and he didn't bother to question it. The outcome would be the same no matter when he learned the details. Hunt -- kill -- and home. Sometimes sated, sometimes shaking and shackled, sedated if they could get safely close enough to stick a needle in him, because the beast inside his skin was still hungry. He never knew until he got free of them at the drop-point which way it was going to be, so fuck it. Let them tell him his mission objectives five minutes from go-time, he didn't care.
Not that it would matter if he did.
The impact in the air when the missile hit was huge; a stuttering crash that rattled each fucking bone in his body individually and woke him straight from a sound slumber into immediate action. Volk knew the large carrier jet was going down from the first impact, knew instantly that they were fucked, even before the plane did more than give her first, hesitant stutter. He didn't waste time thinking of anything else, simply turned to the chains holding him to the edge of the narrow, bolted down cot and set-to with a will. Once the ugly flying bitch started going down it would be everyone for themselves, and no one for Volk -- and he'd be damned if he was going to die alone out here, away from his pack, trapped in a fucking jet simply because he'd been locked up to take a nap.
Muscle straining, eyes watering at the effort, he pulled at his chains, working them back and forth against a sharp edge of the cot. He listened to the tell-tale sounds of panic from all around him as he worked, listened to the sound of a second round of something -- this one artillery fire, though at just enough distance to be non-critical to the lumbering jet -- striking the side of the plane. Sweat dripped down his face, slicked his hands; his arms ached with the effort but he didn't have time to spare to let the pain in his back and shoulders register. He was going to be hurting a whole lot worse if he was trapped in here when the fucking bird fell out of the sky.
After what felt like hours, but he knew had to be no more than a handful of minutes, a link in the chain that ran between the heavy steel cuffs on each wrist and the cot gave way. He stumbled back as it snapped, grunting as the stumble turned into fall as the jet listed heavily to the right. He caught himself on the door, deftly keying int he security codes to the key panel -- security codes he wasn't supposed to know, but always did, just in case. You never knew what shit might go down, and his present situation was proof enough of that.
Slipping the chain free of its loops he moved quickly out into the hall. A few people gave him sharp looks as they hurried past, but most just let him go about his way. When you were getting shot out of the sky by whatever enemy, there wasn't really all that much time to worry that one of your assets might be working out a plan to save their own skin. You had your own to worry about first.
He was at the end of the short hallway, getting ready to turn down and find the angel deck and commandeer his ass a parachute, when he heard a noise from behind one of the doors that sent a hot rush of adrenaline running through him. He pivoted on his heel and sprinted around the corner, through another door into a second hall similar to the one he'd been stored in. This hall, also short, was also lined with small rooms, half standing ajar as soldiers struggled to remove packs and weapons from them. Volk shoved his way through the crowd, reaching out to grab one of the officers as he went by, dragging the shouting man by the throat as he moved toward the door at the far end.
He slammed the man up against the door, hand tightening on his throat hard enough to choke off his breath. "Open it," he growled, releasing his hold just enough to give the man leeway to fumble for his code-keys. He did so reluctantly, and Volk swallowed down the urge to tear his throat out for as the stink of his fear filled the space between them -- tears and nervous sweat and hot, foul breath. He snarled, and the scent of sweat and tears was joined by a fouler scent that had Volk spitting in disgust.
The door slid open and the man handed Volk another set of keys, smaller this time, and Volk flung the man away, half hoping the officer would give him reason to follow, to kill -- but there wasn't time. He stepped into the room, a huge and hungry smile breaking out on his face as he greeted its occupant.
"Looks like we got ourselves some unexpected shore leave." There's an eager note in Volk's voice as he crouches down to undo the shackles securing his brother to his own cot. "So what do you say we get off this fucking thing and go enjoy it?"
His words were met with a low and easy laugh that was beautiful in juxtaposition to the swirling shouts and chaos of the hallways behind them. Strong fingers threaded through his hair, giving a sharp, teasing tug that sends a delicious shiver running down Volk's spine. "I say buy me a drink, and you have a deal."
*****
Volk had taken a map off the body laying under the wreckage of the plane, and between the two of them they'd found enough of a compass to work out how to read it. Four hours of sniping, snarling, stroking, and struggling through the thick, dense jungle -- plus an extra hour's worth of fucking in the dirt and probably half an hour cleaning themselves off in a luke-warm stream as best as possible -- and they made it to the place on the map that was, at least allegedly, a town.
It wasn't much of a town, more of an outpost, and Volk spared a moment to wonder where the fuck they'd found themselves. The maps hadn't had names, not that either of them could read, at any rate, and it wasn't like they were ever informed of where they were being sent. He hadn't even known his brother was with him until he'd heard his growl on the plane -- his body tense again, teeth dragging over his lip as the thought that he might have lost his brother, might has lost his pack on that fucking jet if he hadn't have heard him and gone to get him, filled him once more. He swallowed it down with difficulty, but managed to do so.
There was fun to be had, after all -- fun he didn't get near often enough. They were going to hit the town, hit the bar, throw down some drinks, and see just exactly what sort of chaos they could cause before they got caught.
That kind of delirious mayhem came along far too rarely to let his rage over a might-have-been spoil it.
They stop in front of a free-standing, long one-story building on the edge of town, a motley looking crew of tough men and women and tawdry looking hookers of all varieties circulating through it, drinks and cigarettes in hand; most were armed, in some capacity, though it looked like this was more of a blade than a bullet kind of crowd. The roof was high and thickly thatched, wooden slats alternating with large open spaces that served as both door and window. The wooden floor extended out like a platform a good ten feet in all directions from under the roof, and like the rest ofthe buildings in this backwater pit of a town, the whole structure was raised about five feet off the ground
This'll do just fine.
The that dazzling, wicked grin back in place as he whispers into his brother's ear. "You ready for that drink now? Cause I'm thirsty as fuck."
