Title: A Where Affair (I am totally open to better suggestions on this).
Pairing: Waldo/Carmen, of course!
Rating: I'm gonna say R. NC-17 if you're a prude.
Summary: They keep meeting in exotic places, but the real excitement is all them.
A/N: So I was cleaning the kitchen this morning with my ipod on shuffle, and some of the songs from sailorptah's Waldo/Carmen mix came up, and this just sort of wrote itself. Thanks, sailorptah!
She’s seen him before – in all sorts of strange places – but they speak for the first time on Gharapuri Island, just off the coast of Mumbai. He’s standing in front of the five thousand-year-old statue she’s scoping out, cleaning his glasses. While he’s distracted, a Rhesus monkey with little black hands and a mean, golden face drops out of the architecture and steals his cane.
“Hey! I…need that,” he protests, trailing off into a resigned facsimile of his usual serene calm as he stumbles on the rough stone.
It’s probably a bad idea to whip out her tranquilizer gun in the middle of a popular tourist destination, but she doesn’t really care. She hates these monkeys anyway – one of them stole her breakfast this morning. They’re like rats. Big, clever rats with opposable thumbs.
The monkey topples over with an aborted screech of surprise as the tranq hits him. He’s still adjusting his ridiculous red-and-white bobble hat when she hands him back his cane, smirking lightly.
“You know, if you’re following me, you’re the most seriously inept Interpol agent I’ve ever met.” He shakes his head smiling ruefully.
“Sorry to disappoint. I’m just a fellow traveler. But thank you. For this, I mean.” He blushes, indicating his cane.
His eyes are huge behind his glasses, and he’s cuter up close.
“No problem,” she says with a shrug.
“What’s your favorite thing about India?” he asks, and it stuns her for a minute, because it’s been a very long time since she talked to anyone who wasn’t either an idiotic minion who all but called her “scary boss lady” or an inexplicably lucky teenage detective filled with insufferable self-righteousness.
She’s so unused to anyone seeing her as a person instead of a – very dashing – international thief, that she gives an honest answer before she realizes she’s doing it.
“The history,” she tells him. “There’s so many centuries of – empires before empires, built on top of each other, so many beautiful pieces of lives so different from ours all around, and.” She stops. “What’s your favorite thing?”
“The people, I think,” he answers. "So many people, bustling all around, so much life and color and vibrancy.” He spreads his arms wide. “The whole country is a feast for the senses, you know?”
She thinks of parades and temple bells and eunuchs throwing flower petals and the spice markets and snake charmers on the steps of museums, and nods.
She turns away, because she has work to do, after all, but she lets him sit next to her on the ferry back to the mainland, and they talk about Sufis and camels and Valmiki Jiyanti Day, and sip hot chai while the ocean breeze bustles by their faces. Eventually they make landfall in the packed city, and before she can make an impressive disappearance, he melts into the seething crowds.
She’s lying low in a old mining town locked in the Sierra Madre mountains when she sees him next, ambling between stalls of the old train station turned covered market, once they figured out that train tracks where never going to make it here. He’s browsing shops with identical gaudy jewelry and Octavio Ocampo prints, calmly deflecting the vendors’ persistent sales pitches. He fingers a painted wooden figurine of Don Quixote, then looks up at her. She doesn’t step back, even though she didn’t know he knew she was there. She has a reputation to maintain, after all.
“I was thinking of going to the Cervantes museum this afternoon. You want to come?”
For some unfathomable reason, she says yes.
They meet next in Istanbul, in the long public walkway between the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. She has the Kasikci diamond in her pocket and the topkapi dagger tucked up in her hat. The exhilaration is thronging through her and she feels like she’s sky-diving in Andes. And he’s just there, breathing in the park and the smell of roasting corn from a nearby food stand.
He smiles, wide and sincere, as soon as he spots her.
“You look wonderful,” he murmurs, not quite nervous. “You’re glowing.” She grabs his face in her hands and kisses him, hard and deep. He shakes for a moment, then wraps and arm around her waist and kisses her back, slow and sweet, while the onlookers clap and cheer and whistle. One girl sitting on the sidewalk seizes the chance to plug her wares, hollering out, “You must buy now, sir. Or you will have no present for your lady friend!” They giggle as they break apart, holding each other’s eyes in sympathy; they’re both veterans of the commercial perils of being white around the world. But maybe he’s as giddy as she is, because he turns to the girl and plucks out an intricately designed red wool shawl, and pays the asking price of forty lyra for it.
He loops it around her neck and pulls her in for another kiss, even as she objects.
“I can’t believe you didn’t haggle! These people are worse thieves than I am.” He grins and pecks her on the nose.
“I don’t mind,” he confides.
“And I can’t wear this – I – I have a look –”
“I know,” he reminds her, his eyebrow arched, and she purses her lips as he glances down at his own signature outfit. He ties the shawl loosely, like a scarf, and insists, “It matches. And you’ll need it next week, in Moscow.”
She has no idea how he knows that. God, if only her employees could be so competent.
“You ever consider a career in international crime?” she asks, only half joking. He shakes his head.
“I’m happy as I am. But I’ll see you around.”
She has to get to the old Theodosius ramparts to make her getaway plane, but before she goes, she catches him up for one more kiss.
“You’d better” she warns him.
A month later, she finds him on a nude beach in Greece. He’s lying on a red and white striped towel, reading a newspaper, in nothing but his adorable hat. Although in fairness, she kept hers, too.
“You’re lovely,” he says, smiling softly. “Although I do hope you’re not on the run from Acme kids just at the moment.”
She laughs and shakes her head. He sits up as she kneels down, and he cards a hand through her thick wavy hair, just sliding it through his fingers, without trying to pull it back and reveal the obscured side of her face.
“You have a room here, right?”
He kisses her, a soft, playful nip on the lips, his hand sliding from her hair to the bare curve of her shoulder, and nods.
They tumble into bed, kissing messily, his hands trailing down her back and around, caressing her shoulder blades, her rib cage, and the soft rise of her breasts. She keens and wriggles, biting at his neck and collarbone, one hand pinching his nipple while the other moves between them, stroking his dick, as long and pale and skinny as the rest of him. She grins, vindicated, when his head falls back, groaning. She straddles him and lowers herself down, letting herself ride him just as hard and fast as she wants to, while he moans and gasps and traces her face with reverent fingertips, his eyes adoring and his round glasses askew.
The next morning, he sparwls languidly in th bed and watches her pad around the room in his sweater, sucking down her second cup of black coffee.
"When do you have to leave?" he asks.
VILE is going to raid the Cairo museum this evening, and she has to be there to supervise, or they'll completely screw it up, but -
"We have a few more hours," she says.
His smile is as warm as the sunlight pouring through the window. He holds the covers open, and she climbs happily back in.
When she tucks in her scarf and adjusts her hat that afternoon, already ten minutes late for her flight (but hey, it's her plane) he doesn't kiss her goodbye.
"No need to," he tells her with a gentle shrug. "We'll find each other soon enough."
A year after their first kiss, she plots to steal the giant stone Medusa heads in the basilica cistern, just so she can find him in Istanbul again. They make love on a balcony overlooking the Bosporus straits, the Mediterranean breeze in her hair, wild and delightful and free.