pennysheets | Rescue from Bakerstreet

"They did what?" she asks, eyes gone wide with mingled horror and outrage. The string of gutter curses she mutters were...probably not part of any formal education, at least.

No wonder he reacts badly to disorientation and confusion.

"No wonder you're blowing up all their shit."

He looks, if anything, a little amused by all the swearing. Weary, but amused. "Yes," he agrees. "That. And the part where the world needs protecting from them. They can't be allowed to regroup."

It's definitely a factor in not wanting to be touched when he's confused. And, in fact, in how often he winds up confused.

He sets down his mug. "And my brain is still pretty fucked. So. The rules."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asks, painfully earnest and painfully young. "Keep you anchored in the here and now? Or anything I should avoid, other than touching you if you're not unconscious and bleeding out?"

His expression slides into blank as he thinks. Though he's kind of bemused by the question, he does consider it seriously. It does seem in character for her, somehow; also, it's less cute than sad... but still a little cute.

"I don't know," he says finally. "I'll think about it, though. Maybe there is. I'm still piecing this shit together myself."

"All right," she says, and sits back, surveying the emptied table, and the shadows creeping across the floor.

"Do you want a lookout while you get your things?"

He does not, she thinks, probably need one. It still feels right to offer.

"That's okay. You can stay here and guard the base. It's a much better one than mine," he says with the ghost of a smile. "And then I won't have to redo all the security checks." And he might not want to let her see just how much better hers is. It would, he thinks, make her worry more.

He finishes his coffee and picks himself up. "I won't be long."

It would definitely make her worry more - and make her all the more furious with the people who did this to him.

Six months later, a year, long enough to gain a little more confidence in her ability to operate in the field unsupervised, and she might push the issue. At the moment, however, she accepts his answer with a nod, and a, "Watch your back out there."

It's better than he thought it would be, living with another person. It only takes him a day to start listening for her breathing rather than being startled by it, and he sleeps better than he ever did in his own squats. She's quiet, but not too quiet, certainly not as quiet as he is, and smart when he keeps expecting her to do something stupid. Even better, she cooks, and he watches over her shoulder most of the time, if he's not neck-deep in HYDRA data on his laptop or hiding in his room from some stupid brain malfunction, mostly related to said HYDRA data but sometimes from something seemingly innocuous. He hates brain malfunctions in general, but he hates them more in front of Layla.

None of those brain malfunctions have given him a new target yet, but Layla has her own mission in this city to do anyway, and the whole reason he's still here is to help with that. So he spends some time outside the safehouse casing the location, with or without her company, and looking over her plans so he's familiar with what needs doing.

Time to find out if he can still take orders. He gets his gear ready and watches her getting geared up, out of the corner of his eye.

It doesn't take Layla long to adapt to his presence, making room in her space and routine for another person. It's familiar, having someone there - comfortable, even, though he's quieter and more reclusive than most of the people she's shared camp with. She can't predict the things that will make him go to ground, but she learns the sound of him preparing to emerge, and takes to having a mug of something warm ready for him, coffee or tea, simple and soothing.

She doesn't expect him to be interested in her cooking - the process, and not just the result - but after the third time catching him watching her with that odd intensity of his, she begins to replace her occasional humming with occasional commentary, explanations of why this ingredient or that, things he can take with him when they part ways.

It's only fair; between watching him work while they case the location and what comments he makes on her plans, she certainly has enough to take away from the partnership herself.

The day of, she checks her equipment twice before she begins to slot it in place, brisk and efficient. She may still be more used to a very different type of job, but there are marked similarities between preparing for an expedition in dangerous terrain and preparing for a heist. Most of what she tucks away is thieves tools, lockpicks, a small mallet, a couple of aerosol cans, useful tech, and a couple of knives meant more for utility than violence, though she could stab someone in a pinch. One larger combat knife is strapped to her thigh, reachable through the pocket of her cargo pants if she really needs it, and she has a gun in a holster at the small of her back.

She shouldn't need it. If she does need it, things will have well and truly gone sideways. But if it gets that bad, she wants to be prepared, to not be dead weight.

To, ultimately, not be dead.

Don't worry, Layla. There is no way you are going to end up dead on this mission. There's nothing your new partner won't do to keep you safe at this point.

He is loading up with more weapons than tools, though he's keeping a very curious eye on her tools. He can pick a lock, if it's not too complicated, but that's a lot of interesting little gadgets. Maybe he needs to branch out.

"What is the requirement for taking out hostiles?" he asks. "Lethal? Or not?" If it were him, if it were HYDRA, he wouldn't hesitate. But this isn't HYDRA, and it's her mission.

Her fingers skate over her equipment, one last check that everything's secure, that nothing will come free at a bad moment and give her away.

"Non-lethal," she says. "Evade if possible."

She could say that it's bad business to leave bodies on this kind of op. It is. But deep down, it's mostly the fact that no one they encounter tonight should have a vested interest in harming either of them. They're hired muscle, there to protect things, and having a shitty boss shouldn't be a death sentence.

"Okay," he says, without inflection. It makes the job harder, especially with two of them, but he can do it.

It means he leaves the rifle behind, though. He turns to her to let her lead the way out. "I can drive," he adds. "If you want." It gives her the chance to focus on the op and give him any last-minute details, if she wants to. He already knows the guard rotation and how to disable the security system so it doesn't make an alert to whoever's monitoring it. He doesn't actually know what she's going in here for, because that isn't actually important.

She gives him a smile, quick and warm, grateful for the lack of argument even if she's not entirely certain he actually agrees with her call. She keys the security system on, and steps out into the hall.

"That would be great," she says. "Thank you." It's time to spend going through timings - how long it should take her to get to her target, disable the case security, get out. How long it will take for the guards to get from their posts to the room she's targeting if an alarm's tripped. How long it will take the police to arrive, given the same circumstance. How long it would take to reach the compound's perimeter at a dead run.

She knows the numbers by heart. They've planned this as well as anyone can. Now it's all down to execution.

He goes for his own car, then, since it's already set for his height and very nondescript. It's also not the car she's been using for casing the place, so it's less likely to be recognized. He drops in and starts up, waiting for her to get buckled. Because safety is important, when you're not regenerating murder machines.

"You will lead," he says. "I'll follow you and cover you." Which she knows, but he has to remind her, and himself. He's too used to going in first and just gunning down whatever and whoever is in his path.

She would probably object to that descriptor of him, if he spoke it out loud. Since he doesn't, she just buckles herself in, obedient to that silent directive.

(Later - much, much later - she might reflect that she has a type when it comes to partners in crime.)

"Right," she says. "I'll need about four minutes to get the case disarmed. Should have it, if they haven't changed the guard rotation unexpectedly, but that's our most likely contact point."

Rescue from Bakerstreet - Layla and James

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