An Indelicate Comparison

The first time Agent Walker had sex with Bryce Larkin, it was an accident.

Well, not as such, because such things simply did not happen by accident. But she had not planned on it. They had just returned to their safe house after an extended mission through Berlin tracking some terrorists with suspected ties through Turkey. Observe and report had become track and detain, which had snowballed into eliminate and escape.

Given that she was not feeling much pain in her head, the female CIA agent was firmly of the belief that the blood that was drying in her blonde hair was not hers, though some the reddish colored slime that coated her black tactical gear might contain her blood. Larkin was not in any better shape, admittedly. His black hair had lost its usual coif, and was plastered down on one side with sludge of some sort, while sticking up abruptly on the other. There were clear rips in his clothing, including one that basically detached the arm of the synthetic fabric but had left only a minor scrape across his bicep.

"You alright, Sarah?" he was asking as he shed the jacket with practiced ease, leaving him in a white sleeveless undershirt that was clinging to him like a second skin, soaking wet with whatever it was they had been crawling in, in addition to the rain that had been coating the city for three days.

"Me? You're the one who nearly got shot in the head," was her reply as she bent to work on her boots.

"I was never worried," he said with his trademark smirk. "I knew you had him."

The terrorist had held a gun to Larkin's head, demanding the surrender of some important briefcase, which now had a bullet hole in it and was sitting inside the doorway of their safe house, waiting on pick up. It would hardly be the last time that Agent Walker tossed a briefcase to a bad guy holding a gun on Bryce's head and shot him between the eyes in a single move, though at the time she had no way of knowing that. "Damn it, Bryce," she growled as she peeled the combat boots free of her feet, "I don't want to have to break in another partner. Try to keep yourself from getting shot."

When she looked up, he was right there in front of her. "I didn't know you cared, Agent Walker."

For whatever reason, the closeness unnerved her. Maybe it was the smooth planes of muscles, the fact that she could smell him, Bryce Larkin, even under all the shit they were coated in, maybe the fact that they had been running on adrenaline for the last six hours and awake for twenty-four, but she trembled when he put a hand on her shoulder. Her professional façade crumbled when he leaned close and whispered to her, "You won't lose me, Sarah," and her body arched into his touch, having missed the closeness of another human being for so long now.

Then he was kissing her, his lips hot and hard and demanding on hers, and she responded, letting the feelings, the weariness, the loneliness, drop away and be consumed by the fire of desire, passion for life, for intimacy, for still being alive after an impossible day. His hands were working on the fastenings of her jacket as she moaned into his mouth, and when his tongue glided against hers, she bit down the lightest amount, masking the pain of her clothing sliding past her sore shoulder from ramming into a wall at some point.

Like her partner, she was wearing supportive, functional clothing underneath her tactical gear, but his hands were already underneath that when she found his belt. His growl overpowered her own as his clothing hit the floor with a shove. She was pinned, trapped, the tank top confining her arms when he captured her lips again.

Boots still on, he tripped onto the bed when she shoved him, then pounced heavily. There was still too much cloth, too much separation. They could feel a little bit of each other, the tiniest bit alive, but it was hardly enough. Agent Walker straddled Larkin and hurriedly tried to figure out how to get her own pants off while the man tried to get to his boots around her squirming body.

They kicked free at roughly the same time, and Sarah pinned Bryce to the bed, grinding her hips down, gasping as she felt him against her, the need of him to feel that life, that knowledge that things existed that were not pain and horror and death. His shirt was off now, and she was spinning through the air, pinned beneath her heavier partner as he peeled off her the white athletic bra, hands caressing softness of her upper body, touching her warmly and gently with hands that had killed seven men not two hours before.

A mouth filled with curses was now filled with her flesh, heating her, warming her, burning out the coldness of death, pleasing away the pain. The aching need to feel him, to understand, grew within her. The barest hint of her fingernails raked down his back, leaving more marks, life giving blood… Pain, pain let you know you were alive.

The distraction let her flip him again, and Walker was back in control. Her lips crashed onto his as her hips circled. His groans were sweet to her ears, and she plundered his mouth ruthlessly, seeking to claim him. Bryce's hands were at her waist, scraping her skin to get under that last clothing item…

She pulled away. She managed to get him naked first, gripping his shorts with fingers that had been so delicate on the trigger of her service weapon and yanking them down. Proof of his vitality, his virility, his ultimate essence, his life, was before her, and when an unconscious growl, the female agent freed herself of the clinging white boyshorts she wore.

This time, Larkin was ready for her, and she was on her back, him on top of her, before she even had time to realize she had missed him. His delicious weight, so very male, pinned her once more, and the sheer heat and strength of his body made her so very dizzy. Nothing delicate or tender, just need for that life affirmation echoed in his eyes, in her soul. The thrust was simple, skillful, fulfilling, and quick, just as they had been trained.

His motions were rough, powerful, needy as their hips came together in an indelicate symphony of life. The dirt and sludge and slime and blood mixed with the sweat and heat of them, merging them into one, living, honest being, soft and hard, male and female, executioner and spy. Teeth digging into skin, echoing nails, neither as deep as the possession, caused a shift in balance, a twisting of control, and Walker brought her hips down to meet the man under her, driving him into her to fill her need to feel alive, to feel his life, to know he was alive.

Feeling his life brought confirmation to her. The killing, the suffering, the pain, none of it was in vain as the heat, the opposite of death's chill, filled her. Cries that earlier had been pain, shock, horror were replaced by pleasure, excitement, rapture. The man stiffened beneath her, his breath caught, their motions tying them together, as the ultimate confirmation filled her body, and Walker's back arched, a pleased cry bursting forth before she collapsed heavily on top her partner.

By the time their breathing had returned to normal, they were lying on opposite sides of the bed. "We should get cleaned up before we report in," Walker told her partner, and he nodded.

"You want the shower first?"

********

The first time Sarah and Chuck made love, it was altogether intentional.

And about damn time, from both their perspectives. The prior morning of waking up together, Sarah had been too impressed at his caring and sensitivity too be mad over the fact that he had pulled away. The little bearded man and Casey had both been at the top of her list of people to kill when given a chance, though. Then, in the Castle, before the power had blinked off, that might have been the last time they had, she had almost jumped him then.

So after the rehearsal dinner, and dropping a thoroughly plastered John Casey in his living room chair, Sarah Walker very much had plans for Charles Irving Bartowski. She had plans for him the last time they had thought he was free of all this, but those had been rudely interrupted by a number of not very nice people. At least Sarah had gotten to beat the crap out of some of them.

As it was, when Chuck shut the apartment door, Sarah had firmly, though gently, pushed him up against it. Despite his height, with her heels still on, she did not have to lean up to kiss him, nor pull his lips down to hers. It was soft, gentle, full of promise of things to come, of feelings and emotions to raw to mention. There was no pressure or need, no rush, and very little heat.

Chuck's arms went around her, and her soft sigh as she pressed her body into his, feeling oddly secure in the embrace of the bumbling nerd, opened her mouth enough to let his tongue slide between her lips. She met his exploration eagerly, caressing softly, giving him a gentle welcome and an invitation to explore further. The kiss deepened only slightly as Chuck's hands moved gingerly, unsurely down her back, rubbing her body through the blue dress.

Despite the near lack of passion in it, when the kiss broke, Sarah noticed her breathing was heavier, and the steady feeling of Chuck's chest against her breasts was also moving in time. She grabbed him by the thin tie he still had on and tugged him away from the door. "Come on, Chuck."

It was too far to the bedroom to make it without kissing him again, and so she did, up against the end of the dividing wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area. This one was deeper, more forceful, filled with a building need for the other person involved. The third kiss took them through the door into the bedroom, and a gentle shove left Chuck grinning stupidly on the bed, watching as Sarah moved around the end of the bed. When she leaned forward to kiss him again, her clutch bag clunked heavily onto the bedside table, and when his gaze distractedly fell on the noise, she peeled his belt away.

"I'm never not taking a gun on a real date with you again, Chuck," she said with a grin as she used his belt to secure the window. No interruptions would be permitted, especially not of the Morgan or Casey kind. A huge, Chuck Bartowski signature grin stretched across his face which turned into more of a shocked expression when Sarah undid the back of her dress, letting the silky fabric pool at her feet. Shoes off, she crawled onto the bed, clad in only delicate scraps of lace and silk, and the poor man looked like he was unsure where to put his hands.

He got the hint when Sarah started unbuttoning his shirt, and pulled her into a much more passionate kiss, hinting at the fire that had existed between them for well over a year, a fire she desperately wanted to let loose, that had almost escaped the other morning in the motel. The kiss continued, slowly, getting to know each other, until Chuck was wearing no more clothing than Sarah was, and her small smile, just for him, let him know it was okay to continue. A moment, then they were both gloriously naked, skin on skin contact, bodies heated and growing hotter, need for the other increasing with each touch, each simple motion. When he pulled away this time, she yanked him back, not done with his mouth yet as she rolled him on top of her. His hands were on her, igniting her, stroking her, touching her intimately.

The slow boil, the build up, was killing her when he finally reached her most sensitive flesh with gentle, seeking fingers, and she whimpered his name. "I lov…" She cut him off with a kiss, unable to hear him say it, unable to know it when she knew she would not be able to reply in kind. "Sarah," he whispered into her ear, over and over, as dexterous fingers pushed her higher. She could feel his need for her, burning hardness against her thigh, ignored in his desire to fill her needs, and she reached for him. A gasp told her when her fingers found what they sought, and his words changed. "No."

Then more words, words that filled her with inexplicable happiness. "Let me take care of you." How odd. She protected him, not the other way around. But here, in the real world, he knew the truth, controlled and knew just what to do, and so she let him, as her back arched in pleasure and a pleased whimper escape her iron control. He had gotten the hint about what not to say, unoffended by her lack of implicit permission, his intelligence and caring and understanding showing how much he knew that she had never told him, never meant to reveal, and her name echoed from his lips, moving gently on her ear until she could take it no more.

By the time coherency returned, he was cradling her to him, and she could feel his smile, his pleasure from where his head was buried in the crook of her neck. A shy smile curved her lips, and she shifted, gripping her bag again once she untangled from him somewhat, and extracted something that had caused them so much difficulty when they had reached this stage the only other time. His grin when he saw it was huge, and Sarah felt warmed by it, more than what he had just done to her. "Always prepared, huh?"

"Well," she replied, her face split open in a matching grin, "I think we discovered that I can't count on you for it." She would never tell him it was unnecessary, thanks to her job, the drugs they provided. When he laughed and kissed her, that dark thought slide away. A moment of fumbling, and he was pressed against her.

The tiniest motion of her head, the smallest nod, and he joined them with a single, slow motion, clearly savoring the moment, but watching her shimmering blue eyes, taking his cues from the woman who lay beneath him. As the rich flavor of his eyes burned into her gaze, Sarah shifted her hips up, encouraging his movement, wrapping her arms and legs around him, incasing him totally, claiming him as hers, just as he claimed her as his.

It let her feel the tension in him, the restraint, as he took his time. His other girlfriends had been attractive enough, but Sarah was aware that she was what he had really wanted, what he desired for so long. And she could admit to herself, now, that he was what she wanted. Compassion, caring, normality, a feeling she could not explain, could not admit to, even now, as she shared it with him.

When she lost track of the world, everything dissolving into Chuck, herself, herself and Chuck, together, them, one, Sarah finally gave in to what she wanted, and surrendered, letting go, dropping the control that had defined her for so long.

Long moments later, she muttered from underneath him, "Getoff." His questioning, incoherent murmur prompted explication, and referencing him from earlier in the evening, "You may not be big, but you are heavy."

She could feel his smile, and it brought out her own again as he rolled off to the side. Twisting around, she wrapped her body along his, head on his chest, arms and legs holding him. "You know you can always count on me," he said, finally. When she blinked, almost confused, the words triggering a hazy, distorted memory, Chuck continued, "There was a box in the drawer."

Her eyes widened slightly, and she grinned, just for him. "Good," she whispered, brushing her lips on his ear, and delightedly feeling him shiver, "'cause I had only brought one."