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Carson was glaring at Max, hand cocked on her hip, gloating words already rolling off her tongue when she felt a sudden weightlessness.
Before she could process, react, the bank vault in front of her was gone and she was sliding through some sort of metal chute. Her hands flew outwards to the walls, trying to slow her decent, but found no purchase against the smooth metal. The gun in her right hand clanked loudly in the small space. Fuck, fuck fuck, at least the safety was on.
Her fall was short-lived, and less than a minute later, she tumbled ungracefully out of wide opening, landing in a heap on the floor.
She groaned slightly as she hit the ground, breath knocked out of her, but her training kicked in as she sprung to her feet, agile and quick. Her body responded with few shooting pains in protest, and she winced, rolling out her shoulder where she had landed on it. But overall, she was unhurt.
She was in an unfamiliar room. She swept the area with her gun, eyes searching out any movement, any threat. There was nothing. She holstered her weapon. The room in question was in some sort of basement, concrete walls on all sides, the floor, the ceiling. There was an old metal table, reminiscent of an interrogation room, but piled with boxes. A dull light shone above, and an old washer and dryer were pushed up against one wall, clearly in a state of disuse.
Her hand went to her ear, where her comm was thankfully still clipped to her. She adjusted the earpiece, tapping it once, twice.
“Come in – this is Idaho. Do you copy?”
“Jess. Shirley. Max – can you hear me?”
Only silence. How many stories had she fallen? Two, three? She must be under too much concrete for the signal to reach. Well shit, she thought. There was one door in the room, but a quick assessment revealed it to be locked from the outside. She could get it open with a quick shot through the lock mechanism but wondered there might be a slightly less attention-drawing option.
She crossed back to the chute, peering upwards. It was too steep to climb with no handholds on the smooth walls. She shook her head. A fucking trap door, in the middle of a bank vault. It certainly had dramatic flair.
And she could think of one person, one very vibrant and infuriating woman, who was always more than happy to create a scene.
She grabbed her phone from the inner pocket of her skirt. So impractical, these uniforms, but every girl made a habit of sewing in some internal pockets for storage.
Her service was non-existent at best. She stared at the screen, typing furiously, when a lilting voice interrupted the silence.
“Well fancy meeting you down here, cupcake.”
Her head jerked up. Greta. She was leaning casually against the door frame, now open to the dark hallway beyond. Her expression was light, lips playfully drawn into a smirk.
But her eyes, Carson could feel them, hot and dragging, they tracked down her body. When they returned to hers again, they were darker, deeper. She shivered, hating how her chest felt a little lighter seeing her, how her heart beat just a fraction faster.
She watched the subtle the rise and fall of Greta’s chest, unable to look away. She was wearing dark jeans, and the same leather jacket as the gallery, she could almost feel it under her fingers.
“Greta,” she started, but her voice sound low and rough. She cleared her throat. “Greta, what are you doing here?”
“Needed some new gold earrings,” she said in a purr and then laughed. Her auburn hair hung in waves at her shoulders, somehow still shining in the dimness.
Carson’s lips twitched, but she remained silent.
“Oh, you’re no fun,” she teased, taking a step into the room. “I did tell you this wasn’t over, didn’t I? Not my fault you didn’t want to meet under more conventional circumstances.”
Carson rolled her eyes. “So you decided to rob the Federal Reserve?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“I…” Carson stopped, “That’s not the point. It’s…it’s my job to be here Greta, to catch you! Don’t you see, I was – I AM - trying to protect you.”
Greta came closer, just a few paces of her long legs in small room. She stopped a hairbreadths away, one hand coming up to lightly fiddle with the tie on Carson’s uniform. She tugged, ever so slightly, delighting in the soft spark of fire in the other woman’s eyes, the flare of her nostrils.
“You’ve already caught me, Agent Shaw,” she said lowly, and her voice rolled over Carson, slow and sweet as molasses. She swallowed.
“That’s, uh, that’s not what I mean,” she stuttered, looking around. “This...this is too much, too big! You need to return the money, release the hostages.” She stepped backwards taking a few sharp quick breaths. What the hell was she supposed to do here?
Greta flinched slightly at the words, too much, but she tried to ignore it. She could sense Carson’s unease, watching as she pushed deep breaths into the space between them, as her hands clenched at the empty air around her, looking for something to hold onto.
“I’m…I’m sorry, Carson,” she said sincerely, reaching out to squeeze her hands. Carson’s clamped down on hers reflexively. “I didn’t mean to stress you out."
“I’m not stressed out!” Carson returned quickly, but her voice was too loud, bouncing off the cold walls like a pinball. She was beginning to feel threads of panic lick at her heels, hot tendrils winding up towards her spine.
“Look,” Greta said stepping back to give her space, to give her air. Her hands rose in front of her in surrender, eying Carson carefully. “I, I just wanted to see you.”
“I told you, I told you Greta. I CAN’T. You need to go, get out of here, now.” Carson ran a hand through her hair, feeling sweat along her brow despite the cold. “I just don’t…I don’t know what you want from me. That picture…it could have been so much worse. And I just…I’m sorry. Fuck this is a mess.”
Greta watched her as she spiraled, could feel the frayed edges of her mind as she slowly pulled herself apart. Her heart sunk in her chest. This…well, this hadn’t been her intention. She had been hoping for Carson’s light smile, some playful banter. She felt a deep ache surfacing within her, old wounds made new. She pushed the feelings down. This had been too much.
“Carson. Cupcake…no,” Greta said, with forced evenness in her tone - detached, but still gentle. “I’m the one who is sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have — you didn’t do anything wrong.”
Carson’s eyes tracked to her, wide and almost frantic. She thought she saw dampness at the edges, and had to fight the urge to step towards her, draw her into her arms.
“No, I did,” Carson said, knowing what she needed to say, what she should say, to put an end to all this. But pushing the words past her lips took a herculean effort. “That night…the gallery. I uh, was swept up. You are so…so…but, I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have given you the wrong idea.”
“Oh,” Greta let out, soft and breathy, before she could control her response. She felt a sharp pain in her gut, enough to take her breath away, the familiar prick of tears behind her eyes.
Carson wasn’t looking at her anymore, her eyes fixed intently to the floor. If she looked at Greta she would crumble. If she looked, she would lose her resolve.
“Well, okay,” Greta said, “I uh, guess I read too much into it. Don’t, uh, don’t worry about it.” She cleared her throat. “Just - uh, give me a head start, okay?” Her voice wavered a bit in the air between them and Carson could no longer hold her ground, eyes lifting to Greta’s.
She looked smaller somehow, her shoulders having lost that confident tilt that commanded every room she was in. Her eyes were unfocused, and she was blinking forcefully. She had already started turning away, back towards the door.
Carson let out a noise half between a sigh and a sob. It halted Greta in her tracks, but she didn’t turn back to face her.
“Wait,” she breathed.
Greta felt her getting closer, the heat of her body as she hovered behind her. She should walk out the door, needed to walk out the door, take her gold, and get out of DC.
Instead, she was frozen. Instead, she held her breath as she felt a hand on her back, not tapping to get her attention, or attempting to turn her, just light pressure against the leather of her coat.
The hand slid down, reaching the hem of her jacket, toying with the edge. Soft fingers brushed hesitantly over the shirt underneath, painfully close to her skin. She burned with everything that had passed between them, with everything that never would.
“Greta.” Carson’s voice was whisper soft, entreating. One finger hooked lightly in the belt loop of her jeans, just above the front pocket. Greta knew she was going to snap about two seconds before she did.
She spun around quickly, taking one step, closing the distance between them as she pulled Carson into her arms.
Her lips were on hers in an instant, sharp and intent, and she felt Carson’s hands thread through her hair, pulling her closer and she rose up to the balls of her feet. “Thank god,” she heard Carson gasp softly into her lips.
Carson’s mouth opened willingly under the insistence of her tongue and Greta sank into the warmth of her, tasting mint and spice and her. She pressed forward, urging Carson further back into the room. Her hand shot up to cradle the back of her head as they stumbled into the wall, and she hissed in pain.
Carson immediately shifted away from the wall, pulling back, concern shining brightly against the hunger in her eyes.
But Greta shook her head before she could speak, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said and slotted their lips together again.
Carson seemed to take her at her word, arms wrapping sinuously around her back. She leaned against the wall, pulling Greta to her, a deep, primal need to feel the weight of her. She felt wonderfully trapped, the cold wall at her back and Greta’s tall form bending over her, hair falling like a curtain around their faces. Greta kissed her with a passion bordering on desperation, and Carson returned with equal fervor, feeling like she was floating and drowning all in one.
Greta’s tongue was mapping the inside of her mouth, licking at her palate, tangling with hers. Carson captured it between her lips, sucking gently. Greta groaned into her, hands falling to grasp Carson’s hips as she moved to slip a leg between her thighs.
Carson gasped, hips canting forward automatically and one of Greta’s hands slid to cup the swell of her ass, dipping under the hem of her skirt, slightly cool against the burning skin of her thigh. A low sound emanated from deep in her throat and she felt Greta smile against her lips, humming gently in pleasure.
In the back of Carson’s mind, buried deep under the sensations being so effortlessly pulled from her by Greta’s hands and mouth and tongue, something tugged at her, a hook scraping against the swells of desire that raced through her.
Greta, she was kissing Greta. But she shouldn’t be. Why was that again? When everything about her was intoxicating and soft at the same time. Her soft supervillain.
Ohh, supervillain…the robbery, the vault. The imminent risk of her friends discovering them.
Her hands snaked up to Greta’s face, thumbs soft as they cradled her cheeks, pressing circles into her skin.
“Greta,” she said between kisses, her breath short. Greta only pressed into her again, nipping slightly at her bottom lip and then quickly soothing the bite with her tongue.
“I, uh…” she tried again, and Greta acquiesced slightly, lips moving to the corner of her mouth, allowing her to speak, but all the while tracing down the line of her jaw to her neck in a manner that Carson found most distracting.
“My, uh, friends…” she said, before she could forget again, Greta’s soft mouth against her skin making coherent thought nearly impossible. “They, uh, they’re probably wondering where I am.”
“They’re not,” Greta said around her earlobe, flicking her tongue against soft flesh.
Carson keened, head falling to the side to give her better access, mind foggily processing her words, the sureness behind them. She forced herself to focus.
“Wait, wait…what do you mean?” she asked, shaking her head slightly.
“They’re not looking for you,” she said. “Now hush.” And her lips returned to her skin, running over the shell of her ear, tonguing soft patterns on her neck.
Carson placed two hands on her shoulders, gently easing her back. “Why, why not?” she pressed. They were in the middle of a mission, and her squad would definitely be trying to find her, no matter how mad Max was.
“No reason,” Greta said, with an arch of her eyebrow, not even trying to mask the lie.
“Greta!” Carson exclaimed, though her voice was higher than normal, and she blushed at Greta’s amused smile in response.
“Don’t worry - they’re not going to die or anything,” she said, and she leaned back in, intent on swallowing up Carson’s response with her mouth, but was met with soft fingers on her lips.
“Not…not reassuring. Did you trap them in that vault? Let them out! Greta, I’m serious.”
Greta sighed, reaching into her back pocket, and pulling out a small remote. “Okay, okay. Booby trap deactivated! There, all better.”
Carson shook her head. “Not funny, Greta.” But there was a lightness to her eyes that belied her indignation.
“It was a little funny,” Greta returned. She reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Carson's ear, her expression affectionate but slightly guarded once more.
Carson thought back to what she had said, to what she hadn’t meant, and the pain in Greta’s eyes as she had turned away. She closed the space between them, lips brushing against Greta’s chastely, gently. Less frantic than before but with no less feeling. Reassuring, maybe? But Carson still had no idea what reassurance she could provide.
She was about to speak again when Greta’s voice drifted between them in a whisper.
“Look, I’m…I’m sorry I pushed,” she said, then Carson could sense she was thinking. She took a shaky breath before she continued, “But that night, with you at the gallery - that was the most alive I’ve felt, in well, a long time.”
Her eyes were soft, sad, and she slid a hand to Caron’s face, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “I just wanted you to know that.”
Greta kissed her once more, softly, lingering on her lips even as she pulled away.
“I’ll see you around, okay?” she said lightly, but there was a hollowness to her words and Carson knew she didn’t mean it. Knew that Greta knew she didn’t mean it either.
Carson felt dull panic begin to bubble inside her. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was going to leave. And well, Carson had pretty much told her to. But that was before the kissing.
“Greta,” she said, her voice pleading, but even then, she didn’t know what to say.
Greta paused, eyes taking her in - her shallow breaths, the redness of her cheeks, the small mark of her own making, beginning to blossom against the pale skin of her neck. She was beautiful in her dishevelment, in her uncertainly.
“Or,” Greta said, with a small lift of one shoulder, “you could come with me.”
Carson’s breath caught. It was everything she wanted to hear, was terrified to hear. Endless possibilities scrolled through her mind; how things could go wrong, how things could go so so right.
“You, you could make me,” she returned, thinking back to their first night at the bar, to the crossbow in her hands.
Greta smiled but shook her head softly. “I uh, I need you to choose this time,” she said, “to choose me.” Her eyes never left Carson’s.
“I…” Carson said, “I want to.” Her eyes looked down, studying her own body, her uniform, the gun at her hip. She lifted her face back to Greta’s.
Greta took a step towards her, and Carson reached out unconsciously, their hands meeting, a warm buzzing energy between them.
Greta looked at her, “What have you got to lose?”
Carson let out a laugh, but her eyes were serious when she said, “Well, only everything.”
“Yeah,” Greta breathed into the space between them, her eyebrows raised in question.
And Carson did the only thing she could.
She kissed her.