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Hojo in his underwear.
Tseng tightens his grip, shifting quickly, powerfully, until her chest is pressed flush against his, his shoulder digging into her neck.
Elena twists free, stumbling rather than stepping backwards, bare feet slapping on the training mat.
She looks up, blowing loose strands of hair off her face to look at him. Very much not Hojo in his underwear; Tseng, in a black, gloriously figure-hugging vest and gym shorts.
She blinks. Maybe the mental image of Heidegger in his underwear would be a more effective turn-off? Palmer?
"Focus, Elena," Tseng says. He's stern, eyes fixed upon her, body holding a ready position.
Oh, she's focussed all right. Just not in the way she should be.
She lifts her hands, ready for his next move. He's been kicking her butt so far and she needs to prove he chose right in promoting her.
She's yet to beat him at sparring. It would probably help if she didn't find him so gods damn distracting in all the right—wrong—ways.
She waits for him to come at her. Maybe that's where she's been going wrong; he always waits for her to come at him and she feels like she has to make a move.
So she waits, dancing on her toes, ready. Gods, his face really is handsome when he's concentrating like this, eyes narrowed, jaw set.
And then his hands are lifting the bottom of his sweat-soaked vest pulling it over his head in one swift motion. He mops his brow and tosses it aside.
Hojo in his underwear. Hojo in his underwear.
For fuck's sake.
He's lean and toned, perfectly buff without being overworked. Elena braces her own exposed abs below her sports crop, suddenly self conscious in the face of his dark, lingering gaze.
There's a glint in his eye and curve to his lips. She's willing to bet he's precisely aware of the effect he's having.
She rushes him, aiming low and then feinting to one side before grappling for his other. She strikes, he blocks, she strikes again and he catches her wrist, twisting her round and wrestling her into a chokehold.
Damn him.
The length of his body is pressing against her back, skin to skin, undulating with his heavy breaths, his lips close to her ear. He seems to have paused but she can't afford to think about why.
She's smaller and weaker than her opponent. She knows she'll be smaller and weaker than most opponents she'll face in her career as a Turk.
Do whatever it takes. Underhand tactics, non-textbook moves, your strength lies in your strategy. In the element of surprise.
Maybe it's time to use Tseng's own words against him. She has to win at least once if she wants to prove herself.
She claws at his forearm that's braced around her throat, drawing his attention there while she kicks one leg behind her and upwards, probably harder than she intends just because she needs to be sure she'll reach.
Tseng grunts hard in her ear, his grip loosening. She seizes her chance, spinning around and tackling him to the floor, performing a chokehold of her own, one knee pressed into his chest.
She stares down at him, both of them breathing hard. He's blinking, cheeks flushed, staring back at her with an expression she has no idea how to read.
Did she really just kick her boss in the balls?
He struggles against her but she holds fast, squeezing like her life depends on it. Her career probably does. She's clenched her jaw and scrunched her eyes closed so hard she's seeing stars. Hold it hold it hold it.
Tseng's palm pats the floor three times after what feels like hours, admitting defeat.
Shiva. She's finally beat him. Even if she had to play dirty to do it. Shit shit shit.
Elena lets go, lifting her head a little to look down at him. His face is directly under hers, his haggard breaths brushing her cheeks as his chest lifts her up and down.
"Nice move," he says. He's scrutinising her with his eyes, the hint of a smile on his open lips.
Stop looking at his lips.
She switches her gaze to his eyes only to find he's staring at her lips. His eyes bounce up to hers, back to her lips, back to her eyes. His smile fades, his hand lifting towards her cheek but stopping short.
His lips are soft and willing, parting beneath hers as she leans in. She kisses his bottom lip, his top lip, gently, testing, appreciating. The tip of his tongue swipes her lower lip. She loses balance and tips foward, her hands slapping down either side of his head to catch herself.
Oh Shiva fucking Ifrit and Ramuh, what the fuck is she doing? There's a sweet ache between her legs that absolutely definintely shouldn't be there but gods she'd give anything to grind her hips that are astride his waist. Professional boundaries? She's just kissed her way right through them like a bull in a china shop.
She pulls her face back and looks at him, catching the moment where his eyes open slowly. He looks back at her.
Maybe he—the world flips upside down in a tangle of limbs that is entirely beyond her control. Her shoulders hit the mat, the back of her head following, Tseng's weight over her hips keeping her down with his hands gripping her wrists, pinning them either side of her head.
She pushes against him even though she knows it's useless. His face is towering over her, a few loose strands of hair tickling her cheeks.
Bastard. He's gorgeous like this, though.
"Do you yield?" he says, moving his face lower. She swears it's not her imagination that his hips shift over hers just so.
All the Hojos and Heideggers in their most Hojo-y and Heideggery underwear won't quell the spark that just shot through her core.
"Technically you already did," she replies. He moves lower still, smirking.
"You're the one who threw the rulebook out the window."
When she decided to kick him in the—yes. And then again when she—oh gods. Her career is over before it's even started.
She wriggles under him, lifts a knee but, of course, he deflects it with a leg. He won't fall for that one again.
His nose is almost touching hers, his eyelids dropping—those eyelashes—and she takes a breath, lifting her head just a little to meet him.
"You started it," she says. She can't hold back a smirk of her own. "Sir."
His eyes are back on hers, narrowing. "I don't know what you mean."
"Your vest." She has him now. Or not. Fuck. She's just confessed to having found that more distracting than she should have.
"It's hot in here," he shrugs. The gleam in his eyes says he knows exactly what he was doing.
A noise outside the doors to the gym catches both their attention briefly; distant, boisterous chatter.
Tseng pushes himself up a little, elbows straightening while his hands remain at her wrists. His expression is neutral. Worryingly neutral. Maybe even a bit on the stern side of neutral.
"Come and see me in my office later," he says. He lingers a moment longer, pinning her harder with his stare than with his weight, before getting to his feet.
Tseng extends a hand down towards her as she sits up. Elena hesitates. If she's really as screwed as she thinks she is…
She takes his hand. And pulls. She braces herself on one knee, turning, and flips him over her shoulder. He lands on his back on the mat and she's over him in a flash, disabling him in a chokehold with her legs around his neck.
His hands grip her shin but he's stuck fast.
"Do you yield?" she grunts.
A pause. Longer than is comfortable.
"I yield," he says. Elena lets go, and together they get to their feet, each eyeing the other.
"Got your arse handed to you there, boss." Standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, is Reno.
Tseng sighs. Elena feels herself shrink a bit under his gaze that shifts from her to Reno.
"Uh, the president was looking for you," Reno adds, taking the matchstick from his mouth with a shrug before pushing himself away from the door that he was propping open against his backside.
Tseng glances at Elena. Hojo, Heidegger and Palmer all dancing a jig in their underwear won't lighten the mood now. "My office, later."
*
Elena can feel Reno's eyes on her, like they have been on and off all afternoon. Waiting, teasing. She'll keep pretending she hasn't noticed because once he starts, it'll only be a matter of time before his innuendos back her into a corner.
But gods damn it, she's squirmed enough for one day. Maybe there won't even be a tomorrow for her to squirm through, anyway. Professionally speaking. She glances at Tseng who has joined Reno, Rude and herself in the main office. He's fiddling with some paperwork, apparently engrossed.
He hasn't said a single word to her since their sparring session that morning.
Probably it wasn't her brightest idea to turn it into sparring with tongues. What the fuck was wrong with her? Why, why did she have to have a stupid crush on her stupid boss?
"So come on, rookie, how'd you do it?" Reno is at his desk across from Elena's. He leans forward, glancing between her and Tseng, who is at the desk situated away from the other three. He's still absorbed in his files. Or pretending to be.
"Do what?" If he wants to make her squirm, he can work for it. In theory, though, he didn't see what happened in the gym. In theory.
Sweat begins to prickle at her skin all the same.
"Kick the boss' arse," Reno says, not missing a beat. He's eyeing Tseng, who doesn't even raise an eyebrow.
"I won fair and square," she shrugs. Tseng does raise an eyebrow this time, but says nothing. A tingle of amusement makes her want to smile so she tips her head down and massages her lips with one hand.
Shiva, the whole thing is so awkward that she has to laugh or she'll melt into a puddle of anxious sweat.
"Uh huh, really?" Reno nods carefully.
It's useless looking at Tseng, so she looks at Rude. He's at his desk beside Reno's, watching, sipping at an espresso. Equally useless.
"Why is it so hard to imagine I beat him? Because you never have?"
"Oooh, ouch," Reno laughs, pressing a hand to his unbuttoned chest in mock injury. "Well no, if you want to know," he says. "Not without cheating."
Elena's cheeks start to burn. She looks back at him, lifting her eyebrows questioningly, hoping to seem unruffled when she's, in fact, ruffled as fuck.
"Nice red sports crop, by the way." Reno wiggles his eyebrows. "How did you know red is Tseng's favourite colour?"
The stapler is in her hand before she can stop herself.
"Elena!"
She stops, hand poised to lob the stapler at Reno. She can feel Tseng's glare boring into her before she even dares look in his direction.
She doesn't think she's ever heard Tseng shout.
Crap crap crapety crap.
Act first, think later. Like that trait hasn't already caused her enough problems for one day.
Tseng rises from his chair, gathering the files into his hands.
"Enough, Reno. She beat me. You couldn't. Get over it."
"Only because she—" Reno starts.
"Fair and square," Tseng says flatly. He glances at Elena and then nudges his chair under the desk with one knee.
Well, they both know that's bullshit. It's quite euphoric to have Tseng, her boss—her crush—siding with her, but then she remembers that it's really his own face that he's saving here. The Turk director can't be seen to be defeated by a sports crop top.
And this whole embarrassing affair is her fault. He's probably going to kill her.
"What're those?" Reno asks, nodding to the files in Tseng's arms.
Thank fuck he's changed the subject.
Tseng looks at Elena. Her attention drops to the unsmiling line that is his lips. No, she will not think about how amazing it was to kiss them. She will not.
"They're for a disciplinary matter." His lips, or the files?
She's so fired. She knows it.
He crosses the office to the door, pausing once he's opened it.
"Elena, my office in half an hour."
She swallows. "Yes, sir."
*
If he drags this out any longer, Elena swears she's going to explode. She doesn't know how long she's been standing opposite Tseng's desk, hands clasped loosely behind her back, while he sits there, looking at his screen with a very serious, I'm-about-to-fire-you-slowly-and-painfully expression on his face.
Well, he's not really wearing any expression at all. Which is worse. Even if he does look very handsome when he's serious.
"Tomorrow," he says, still looking at his screen. "Are you busy?"
Tomorrow what?
"Sir?"
"We should do this properly." He looks up at her, eyes narrowing. "By the book."
The sacred fucking professional book that she threw out the window this morning. She thinks she'd rather be shot than undergo whatever lengthy disciplinary procedure HR stipulates.
"Sir, can we just get this over with? I really don't think we need to involve HR, I'd rather just—"
"Oh, I don't think we'll need to involve HR." He smiles, entirely too nicely, mostly in his eyes. "They probably wouldn't approve but the Turks are mostly outside of their jurisdiction."
"I see," she says. She's wringing her fingers behind her back.
When he says nothing else, just sits there, decidedly unhurried, she takes her ID from her inside pocket and drops it down on top of his desk.
"You won't be needing that," he says.
"Right," she nods solemnly. Because she'll be barred from the building. Shiva, all those years of training and trying and blood and sweat and tears, all down the toilet in one morning.
In one kiss, to be precise. And one kick to the balls but the less said about that, the better.
"I'm really sorry," she blurts. She looks down at the floor.
"I'm not."
Don't sugarcoat it or anything. Elena nods quickly, swallowing, wanting nothing more than to escape so she can go and scream and cry and throw things.
"Right," she says. She can't hide the wounded disappointment from her voice.
Tseng gets up and paces slowly around his desk to stand opposite her. A little too close for comfort. She stares at the knot of his tie.
"You've given me the perfect excuse," he says, reaching out with one hand to pick her ID card up off the desk.
Oh, that's even better. So he's been waiting for an opportunity all along.
"To ask you to dinner."
Elena stares at him, lips parting. He reaches out, takes one side of her jacket between his fingers, and delicately slips her ID card into her pocket.
"What? You're not firing me?"
He hums a chuckle.
"No," he says, nonchalant. "I'm asking if you would like to have dinner with me."
The bastard. The smug bastard. But dinner. But fucking hell he totally was playing her that morning.
"What's the catch?" She narrows her eyes at him. She says 'yes' and he scores a final victory in this pissing contest that's gone on all day long?
He shrugs. "Say yes and you'll find out?"
Elena steps forward, staring up at him. He stares back equally hard. When his eyes drop to her lips briefly, she knows he means it.
His hands are at her biceps suddenly, spinning her around and pushing her back against the edge of his desk. She leans back, her legs tangling between his as she half sits, half leans on the edge, his hands planted either side of her hips. He leans in and she leans back, not breaking her stare.
"You dropped your guard," he mutters, his lips hovering near hers.
"I thought we'd finished sparring?"
"You decided to rewrite the rules, remember?"
"I think you wanted me to just so you could ask me to dinner."
Tseng tilts his head down a little, eyes closing in a little chuckle.
"And?" He smiles a wry smile. "Do you yield?"
She tips her chin upwards, her lips almost grazing his but not quite. She can't hold back a smile. "Yes," she says. He presses forward, lips closing over hers in a kiss. "I guess this makes us even."