Random Fanfictions of a Thirty Something

The safe house smells like stale coffee, a scent you've come to associate with Waller. You're leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching as the woman herself pulls up a display that shows a ballroom.

"This gala," Waller announces, " is a high security event. Arms dealers, corrupt politicians, and at least three people on our watch list. You two are going in as a married couple."

You nearly choke on air. "Absolutely not."

"You heard me." Waller's eyes cut to you, then to Rick standing across the room with his arms folded, jaw clenched.

"You want me to play house with Captain America over here?" You gesture at Rick with a dismissive wave. "The man whose idea of being spontaneous is changing the mission parameters without filing paperwork first?""

Rick's jaw tightens, "better than working with someone who treats every mission like it's amateur hour."

"Amateur?" You push off the wall, taking a step toward him. "I've saved your ass at least four times in the last six months."

"Three times, and I wouldn't have needed saving if you'd followed the plan instead of going rogue every five minutes."

"Your plans are boring."

"My plans keep people alive."

Waller's hand slams down on the table. "Enough, I don't care if you two want to kill each other, though the sexual tension is getting exhausting to watch."

You both whip around to stare at her. "What sexual tension?" you demand at the same time Rick says,

Waller ignores you as she pulls up the files. "Meet the Henderson. You'll infiltrate the gala, plant surveillance devices in the VIP lounge, and extract intel on the weapons shipment." Amanda explains your identities to you

"This is a terrible idea," you mutter, but you're already studying the files because you're professional, damn it, even if Rick Flag makes you want to commit violence.

Rick moves closer to examine the display, and you catch a whiff of his cologne, something clean and masculine that you absolutely do not notice. "We can handle it," he says, all confidence. Waller rolls her eyes before walking away to allow you two to get situated with your new identities.

You turn to him with your sweetest smile. "Can you, though? Because playing my husband requires a personality, and I'm not sure you have one of those underneath all that brooding."

His eyes lock on yours, and for a second, something hot and dangerous flashes there. "Trust me, I can be very convincing when I need to be." The way he says it makes your stomach flip, which is infuriating.

"Prove it," you challenge, lifting your chin.

Rick steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "Careful what you ask for, sweetheart." The endearment sounds like a threat and a promise. Both of you breathing slightly harder than necessary, neither willing to back down first.

"This is going to be a disaster," you say.

Rick's mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "Yeah, it is."

You emerge first, smoothing down the silk gown that hugs every curve before flowing to the floor. It's elegant, expensive, and completely unlike anything you'd normally wear on a mission. The slit up the side is high enough to hide a thigh holster, at least.

Rick steps out a moment later, and you have to physically stop yourself from reacting. He's in a tailored black suit that fits him like it was made for his body.

"You clean up nice, Colonel," you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near breathless.

His eyes travel down your body, slowly, deliberately, not even pretending to be professional about it. "You too." His gaze lingers on the slit in your dress before meeting your eyes again, as he says your cover name.

You wrinkle your nose. "God, that name is awful."

"Better get used to it, sweetheart. We need to sell this." He crosses to you, holding out his hand. "Let's practice."

"Practice what? Pretending I can tolerate you for more than five minutes?"

"Being married." He says it in a way that you almost laugh. But then his hand settles on your waist, warm and possessive, and the laugh dies in your throat. "We've been married for five years. Met at a charity auction. You bid on me for a date."

"How much did I pay?" You place your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the expensive fabric. It's not as steady as you expected. "Because I'm thinking I overpaid."

His thumb brushes the small of your back, and you feel it everywhere. "You were very persistent. I was charmed."

"Charmed. Right." You lean in closer, your voice dropping to something dangerous. "What really charmed you? My sparkling personality or my trust fund?"

"Both." His hand slides lower, fingers splaying across your hip. "We honeymooned in Italy. You got food poisoning before wwe could even set foot on the plane."

"Romantic."

"I held your hair back while you were sick. You said-" His voice drops, rough and low, "you said it was the moment you knew I really loved you."

The way he says it makes your breath catch. He's too good at this. Too convincing. "You've really thought this through, haven't you?"

"I'm thorough." His eyes drop to your mouth. "You know that."

"Oh, I know exactly how thorough you are, Flag." Your fingers curl into his lapel. "I've watched you plan missions with the same intensity most people reserve for their wedding vows. It's almost obsessive."

"Says the woman who memorizes my coffee order."

Your heart is hammering now. "I-" You don't have a comeback for that. "You're supposed to be annoying. Stop being observant."

The air between you is electric. His hand is still on your hip. Yours is still fisted in his jacket. You're close enough to kiss, and for one breathless moment, you think he might actually do it.

Then Rick clears his throat and steps back, and you want to scream.

"We should go over the floor plan again," he says, his voice rougher than before.

"Right. The floor plan." You turn away, trying to ignore how your entire body is still humming from his touch. "Wouldn't want to be unprepared."

"That's my line."

"I'm full of surprises, husband."

"I've noticed." There's something dark and promising in his voice. "And for the record? You're a very convincing wife."

The Gala is exactly as pretentious as you expected. Crystal chandelier swing from high above and women are in designer gowns. It's the kind of place where everyone is either rich, dangerous, or both. Rick's hand finds the small of your back as you enter, and you have to remind yourself it's just for show. Except it doesn't feel like just for show.

"Mr. and Mrs. Henderson," the host greets you with a practiced smile. "So wonderful you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," Rick says smoothly, his voice taking on a warmer tone you've never heard before. "My wife has been looking forward to this all week."

You lean into him, playing your part. "He spoils me."

"As I should." He presses a kiss to your temple, and your breath catches. It's brief, perfectly appropriate for the setting. But the warmth of his lips against your skin sends electricity down your spine. This is just the cover, you remind yourself. He's playing a role. But as the night continues, you start to wonder.

Rick is too good at this. His hand never leaves you, sometimes at your waist, sometimes at the small of your back, once sliding up to rest between your shoulder blades as he guides you through the crowd. Each touch lingers just a fraction too long to be purely professional.

"You're really committed to this whole 'devoted husband' thing," you murmur as he steers you toward a group of targets. "Should I be concerned you've had practice?"

"Jealous?" His breath is warm against your ear, and you feel him smile. "That's cute."

"I'm not jealous. I'm observing." You plaster on a smile as you approach a weapons dealer. "You're just... surprisingly competent at playing house."

"I'm competent at a lot of things." His thumb traces a deliberate circle against your spine. "You're only just noticing?"

Before you can respond, he's introducing you. "Darling, this is Mr. Kozlov. Mr. Kozlov, my wife, the brilliant strategist I was telling you about."

You blink. "You were talking about me?"

"Always." Rick's smile is devastating, and completely unfair. "She has a mind that puts most men to shame. It's one of the many reasons I married her."

Kozlov chuckles, but you're too busy trying to process the way Rick is looking at you, like you're actually precious to him.

"You're laying it on thick," you say once Kozlov moves away. "Even for cover."

"Am I?" His hand slides from your back to your hip, possessive and warm. "Or maybe I'm just telling the truth. You are brilliant, drives me crazy most days."

"Most days I drive you crazy because I ignore your orders."

"That too." His eyes are dark, intense. "But I've learned to appreciate your... creative insubordination."

"Appreciate, right." You spot the next target across the room. "That's a generous word for what you usually call it."

"What can I say?" He guides you through the crowd, his hand never leaving your hip. "Marriage has mellowed me."

"We've been 'married' for three hours, Flag."

"Best three hours of my life." He says it lightly, but there's an edge to his voice that makes you look at him sharply. He's already turning away, leading you toward the dance floor. "Come on, Mrs. Henderson. We should dance. People are watching."

"Of course they are. You've been touching me all night."

"That's kind of the point of being married." He pulls you into his arms with confident ease, one hand at your waist, the other capturing yours. "Relax. You're supposed to like when I touch you."

"I'm relaxed."

"You're tense as hell." He leads you into the first steps, and damn him, he's a good dancer. Smooth, confident, like he's done this a thousand times. "What's wrong? Afraid you might actually enjoy this?"

"I'm afraid you're enjoying this too much."

"Maybe I am." His hand flexes against your waist, pulling you incrementally closer. "Problem?"

"Yes, actually." You plant the fourth surveillance device as you pass a column, your movements hidden by the dance. "You're supposed to be the by the book soldier who hates improvisation. This..." You gesture vaguely between you. "...is a lot of improvisation."

"I'm adaptable when properly motivated."

"And what's motivating you right now?"

His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second before meeting yours again. "The mission. What else?"

Liar. But you can't call him on it here, not with a dozen targets watching. So instead you say, "You know, for someone who lectures me about professionalism, you're being awfully unprofessional with your hands."

"Am I?" His thumb traces another circle, this time at your waist, and you suppress a shiver. "I hadn't noticed. Maybe you should file a complaint with HR."

"Maybe I will."

"Please do. I'd love to hear you explain exactly what I'm doing that's so... distracting." The way he says 'distracting' makes it clear he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

"You're an asshole."

"And you're beautiful when you're annoyed." He spins you, and when you come back to him, you're closer than before. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"You're really committed to this bit."

"It's not a bit." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "You think I haven't noticed how you look in that dress? How you've been looking at me all night like you can't decide if you want to kill me or..."

"Finish that sentence and I'll break your nose."

"See? Beautiful when you're annoyed." But there's heat in his eyes now, something dangerous and real. "You planted the device?"

"Obviously."

"Good girl."

The praise shouldn't affect you. It absolutely shouldn't make your breath catch or your pulse spike. But it does, and from the slight smirk on Rick's face, he knows it.

"Stop that," you hiss.

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

"I really don't." He's lying, he absolutely knows. "You'll have to be more specific."

"The touching, the compliments. The way you're looking at me like-" You cut yourself off, frustrated.

"Like what?" He leans in, his lips nearly brushing your ear. "Like I want you? Like I've been thinking about getting you alone all night? Like this cover story is the best assignment Waller's ever given me?"

Your heart is hammering. "Rick-"

"One more device to plant," he says, pulling back to a professional distance so smoothly you almost think you imagined the last thirty seconds. Almost. "Then we can get out of here. Unless you're having too much fun playing house?"

"I'm not the one who's having too much fun."

"No?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back as the song ends, guiding you off the dance floor. "Could've fooled me. You've been pressed against me for the last five minutes."

"That's called dancing, Flag."

"That's called something else entirely, and we both know it." He steers you toward the final target, but his voice stays low. "You can lie to yourself all you want, but your body's been telling me a different story all night."

"You're delusional."

"And you're flustered." He sounds far too satisfied about it. "When's the last time I got you this flustered?"

"Never."

"Liar." His fingers press against your spine, and you feel the touch everywhere. "I make you nervous."

"You make me want to punch you."

"Same thing, with us." He's right, and you hate it. "One more device, sweetheart. Then you can go back to pretending you hate me."

"I do hate you."

"Sure you do." He introduces you to the final target, his hand never leaving your back, his voice warm and affectionate as he talks about his "wife," and the worst part is how natural it sounds.

You plant the final device, mission accomplished.

"I need some air," you say abruptly, pulling away from him.

His brow furrows. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Just... too many people." You head for the balcony before he can respond, needing space to think, to breathe. Because right now, with your skin still burning from his touch and his words echoing in your head, you can't remember a single reason why you shouldn't just give in to whatever this is between you. And that terrifies you more than any mission ever has.

The balcony overlooks the city, all glittering lights and distant sirens. You grip the railing, trying to steady yourself. You hear him before you see him. His footsteps are quiet, but you've learned to recognize his presence.

"Don't," you say without turning around. "Just... don't."

"Don't what?" Rick's voice is closer than you expected. He's right behind you now, and you can feel the heat radiating off him. "Don't check on my partner? Don't make sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You ran out here like-"

"I didn't run." You spin to face him, and immediately regret it because he's too close, and his tie is loosened. "I walked, calmly, like a professional."

"Right, a professional." His jaw ticks. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you can't handle it." He takes a step closer, and you refuse to back up. "You can't handle being close to me. Can't handle that I'm not just some random soldier you can manipulate with your charm and your smile and that thing you do where you..."

"Manipulate?" You laugh, sharp and bitter. "That's rich coming from you. Mr. By The Book. Mr. Everything Has To Be My Way Or The Highway."

"That's not-"

"Your plans, your rules, your orders." You jab a finger into his chest. "You treat me like I'm some reckless child who needs to be controlled instead of a soldier who's been doing this just as long as you have."

His hand comes up to catch your wrist, holding it against his chest. "Because you are reckless. You take unnecessary risks, you go off-script, you-"

"I adapt! I improvise! Something you'd know how to do if you weren't so goddamn rigid all the time!" You try to pull your hand back, but he doesn't let go. "Remember Bogotá? When your precious plan fell apart and I had to-"

"Had to nearly get yourself killed?" His voice rises. "Had to jump off a fucking building because you couldn't wait five seconds for backup?"

"I saved the mission!"

"You could have died!" He's shouting now, and so are you, and you're both breathing hard. "You could have died, and I would have had to watch it happen, and you act like that's nothing-"

"It's the job, Flag! We all could die on any mission! That's what we signed up for!"

"Not like that." His grip on your wrist tightens. "Not you. Not-" He stops, jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump.

"Not what?" You step closer, challenging. "Say it. Not me? Why? Because I'm special? Because you care?"

"Yes!" The word explodes out of him. "Yes, because I care, and I hate it, and you make it impossible for me to do my job because all I can think about is keeping you alive!"

The admission hangs between you, raw and real.

"That's not my problem," you say, but your voice has lost some of its edge.

"The hell it isn't." He's still holding your wrist, and now his other hand comes up to grip your hip. "You've been doing this on purpose. All night. Every touch, every look, every time you leaned into me like you couldn't help it-"

"You're the one who couldn't keep his hands off me!"

"Because you love it!" His eyes are blazing. "You love pushing my buttons. You love making me lose control. You've been doing it for years, and tonight you just-" He stops, breathing hard. "You made it worse. You made it impossible to pretend."

"Pretend what?"

"That I don't want you." His voice drops, rough and dangerous. "That I haven't wanted you since the first time you told me to go to hell. That every time we argue, all I can think about is shutting you up with my mouth."

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. "Rick-"

"You want to know why I'm so rigid? Why I'm so by the book?" He pulls you closer, and you let him. "Because if I'm not, if I let myself feel what I feel when I'm around you, I'll lose focus and I'll make mistakes. I'll get people killed because I'm too busy making sure you're safe."

"I don't need you to keep me safe."

"I know." His forehead drops to yours, and his voice cracks. "I know you don't, but I can't stop. Every time you do something reckless, every time you throw yourself into danger, I think about losing you and I can't-I can't breathe."

You should push him away. You should maintain professional distance. You should do a lot of things that aren't grabbing his shirt and pulling him even closer.

"You want to know why I hate working with you?" Your voice is shaking. "Why I push every button I can find? Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because you make me feel things I have no business feeling. Because every time you give me an order in that voice, I want to either punch you or..."

"Or what?" His hand slides from your hip to your lower back, pressing you flush against him.

"Or this." You shove him, hard, and he stumbles back a step. "I hate that you make me want this. I hate that I can't focus on missions because I'm too busy watching you. I hate that when you took that bullet in Berlin, I forgot the entire plan because all I could think about was getting to you."

"You-" He stares at you. "That's why you went off-script."

"Yes!" You shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists. "Yes, because you got shot, and I stopped thinking like a soldier and started thinking like-like..."

"Like what?" He's backing you up now, step by step, until your back hits the railing.

"Like someone who cares too much." The words are barely a whisper. "Like someone who's terrified of losing you. Like someone who's been lying to herself for years about what this is."

His grip on your wrists loosens, becomes something gentler. "What is this?"

"I don't know." You look up at him, and you're done pretending. Done lying. "But I'm tired of fighting it. I'm tired of fighting you."

"Me too." His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "I'm so tired of pretending I don't-" He stops, swallows hard. "That I don't feel everything I feel for you."

"Rick..."

"I'm in love with you." The words are quiet and devastating. "I've been in love with you, and it's killing me, and I can't-I can't keep pretending."

You don't let him finish. You grab his tie and yank him down, crashing your lips against his with all the frustration and the desperate need you've been suppressing for years.

He makes a sound of surprise or relief and then he's kissing you back like he's been starving for it. His hands are everywhere your face, your hair, your waist. Like he can't decide where to touch you first, like he wants to touch all of you at once.

You bite his lower lip, hard, and he groans into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair, tugging your head back so he can kiss you deeper, harder. It's not gentle, it's not tender. It's years of anger and want and need finally exploding between you.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth when you break apart for air. "Fuck, I..."

"Shut up." You pull him back down, kissing him with everything you have. "Stop talking and just-"

He lifts you onto the railing, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, and you arch into him.

"We shouldn't..." he starts, but you cut him off with another kiss.

"We absolutely shouldn't," you agree against his lips. "Terrible idea."

"The worst." His hands find the zipper at the back of your dress. "We're going to regret this."

"Absolutely." You push his jacket off his shoulders, and he lets it fall to the ground without a second thought.

His hands slide beneath the loosened fabric of your dress, palms hot against your skin. "Last chance to back out."

You look up at him, at the want written plainly across his face, and make your decision. "There's a service entrance. Leads to a private room."

"Show me."

You grab his hand and pull him back inside, navigating through the crowd with practiced ease. No one pays attention to a couple slipping away from the party, it happens all the time at these events.

The service hallway is dimly lit and empty. You've barely made it three steps before Rick spins you around, pressing you against the wall and capturing your lips again. This kiss is even more intense than the last.

Your hands work at the buttons of his shirt while his fingers dig into your hips. When you finally get the shirt open, you run your palms across his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath warm skin.

"Here," you gasp out, nodding toward a door marked 'Private.' It's a small office, barely furnished, but it has a desk and that's all you need.

Rick lifts you onto it in one smooth motion, stepping between your legs. The slit in your dress falls open, and his hand immediately finds your thigh, sliding up slowly.

"We're supposed to be on a mission," you manage to say, even as you're unbuckling his belt.

"Mission can wait." His lips find that spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "This can't."

You pull him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Someone could come looking for us."

"Let them." His hand slides higher, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear, and you gasp. "I'm done pretending I don't want this. Don't want you."

"Rick," His name comes out as a moan when his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding you already wet.

"Fuck, you're..." He groans against your neck. "How long have you been like this?"

"Since you put your hand on my back at the entrance," you admit breathlessly. "Maybe before."

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You reach down to palm him through his pants, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily. "You're not exactly unaffected either."

"Never am, not around you." He captures your lips again as his fingers work you. He knows exactly what he's doing, reading every gasp and moan, adjusting his rhythm until you're trembling.

"Inside," you demand, fumbling with his zipper. "Now."

He doesn't need to be told twice. "Look at me," he commands, and you do. Your eyes lock as he pushes inside, slowly, giving you time to adjust. The stretch is perfect and you dig your nails into his shoulders.

"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

"More than okay." You roll your hips experimentally, and he groans. "Move, Flag."

He does, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in. The angle is perfect, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on as he sets a rhythm that's both controlled and desperate.

"This what you wanted?" he growls against your ear. "This what you've been thinking about when we argue?"

"Yes," you gasp out. "God, yes."

His hand slides up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you again. It's messy and desperate, all teeth and tongue and barely contained need. Your bodies move together like they've done this a thousand times before, like all those years of learning each other's patterns in combat have translated into this.

The desk creaks beneath you with each thrust. You should care about the noise, about the possibility of getting caught, but you can't bring yourself to. Not when Rick is looking at you like you're the only thing that matters, not when every movement sends pleasure through your body.

"Close," you warn him, feeling the tension building.

"Thank fuck." His thumb finds your clit, circling with just the right pressure. "Come for me. Want to feel it."

The combination of his words, his touch, the intensity of his gaze, it's too much. Your orgasm hits you like a wave, and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cry. He follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he buries himself deep and groans your name.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, trying to process what just happened.

"So," you finally say, your voice hoarse. "That was..."

"Yeah." He pulls back slightly, and you can see the conflict already starting in his eyes. "We should..."

"Don't." You press a finger to his lips. "Don't overthink it. Not yet."

He nods slowly, then carefully pulls out and helps you down from the desk. You both straighten your clothes in silence, the weight of what you've done settling over you.

Your dress is wrinkled, his shirt is half-unbuttoned, and there's no way you're going back to that gala looking like a respectable married couple.

"We need to extract," Rick says, slipping back into mission mode. "We got enough intel."

"Right. The mission." You smooth down your hair, trying to look somewhat presentable. "That's what's important."

He catches your wrist, stopping you. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

He opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again. "I meant we should finish the job and then... talk about this, about us."

"Us." You test the word, and it doesn't sound as foreign as it should. "Is there an us?"

"I don't know, but I think we need to figure it out."

The safe room is small, which means you're once again acutely aware of Rick's presence. You've both changed into tactical gear, the fancy clothes abandoned. The mission was a success, you extracted the intel, planted all the devices, and got out clean.

Rick is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. You're leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him.

"So," you finally say. "That happened."

"Yeah." He looks up at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression that you've never seen before. "Regret it?"

You consider lying, it would be easier. You could laugh it off, call it a one-time thing, go back to your comfortable arguing every time you two are in the same room as one another.

"No," you admit. "Do you?"

"No." He stands, crossing to you. "But I don't know what to do with it either. We're not exactly... compatible."

"We're compatible enough." You gesture vaguely in the direction of the gala. "Evidence suggests otherwise."

A smile tugs at his lips. "Physically, sure. But everything else..."

"We fight. We argue. We drive each other crazy." You push off the wall, closing the distance between you. "But maybe that's not a bad thing. Maybe that's just... us."

"Us," he repeats, like he's testing how it sounds. "You really want there to be an us?"

"I don't know." You reach up, straightening his collar even though it doesn't need it. "But I think I want to find out, If you do."

He catches your hand, holding it against his chest. "This is a bad idea."

"Probably."

"Waller will have opinions."

"Oh most definitely." You roll your eyes, and can almost hear the sarcastic, mean spirited reaction she would give.

"We'll still fight."

"Constantly." You smile up at him. "But maybe we can find other ways to work out the tension too."

He laughs, actually laughs and the sound does something warm to your heart. "You're trouble."

"You're just figuring that out now?"

"No." He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours. "I've known it from the start, that's the problem."

"So what do we do?"

"I guess..." He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "We figure it out, together. One mission at a time."

"One mission at a time," you agree. "But Flag?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time we go undercover as a married couple, I'm picking the names."

He grins. "Deal. As long as I get to pick where we honeymoon."

"We didn't even get a chance to honeymoon the first time."

"Exactly. We have a lot to make up for, Mrs. Henderson."

You punch his arm, but you're smiling. "Don't push it, Colonel."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He kisses you again, softer this time, like a promise. "But for the record? I was never acting. Not about the important parts."

"Yeah." You kiss him back. "Me neither."