Spygate

***

He knew it was a bad sign when Elizabeth fell over on the dingy loveseat giggling.

"It's not funny!"

Well, if it had been anyone other than him - say their boss, Caldwell - it would be damn funny. But it was him. John shifted uneasily in his Tevas.

Elizabeth, to her credit, sat up and scrubbed furiously at her face. "No. It's not. Right."

He scowled.

She bit her lip.

He shoved his hands in his khakis and glared at the floor of the bolt-hole. This was one of his least favorite of their secret rooms in rooms. They - and by 'they' he meant 'Elizabeth' - had them across forty different countries and in almost every major city. They'd come in infinitely handy in the past. Each had a couch or a few chairs, food, a cornacopia of disguises - don't think about the rubber dresses, John, don't think about the dresses - along with a rather impressive arsenal.

This one was in Tiera Del Fuego.

They were supposed to steal important information later this afternoon. But first they had to infiltrate the local drug tzar's hotel.

Hence the Tevas and the khaki's and the white shirt that made him look like a complete dork. It wasn't fair that Elizabeth looked so good in her sundress and wedge-heeled sandals.

He was wearing Tevas. If his brother ever found out, he'd hear no end of it over Thanksgiving.

Granted, his brother would have to know that he was a spy for the CIA.

That still freaked him out a lot.

"Why are we doing this again?" He really hadn't meant that to sound so... whiny.

Elizabeth just grinned before standing up and moving to smooth the lapels of his blue hoody. "Because drugs are bad, mkay."

He stuck his tongue out at her. One'd think that the spy business was supposed to be a serious affair with lots of running and bullets and hand signals. One would be right. But given the fact that he and Elizabeth usually ended up making faces at each other during gun battles, and debating the pros and cons of wedge heels versus spiked heels - Elizabeth swore by wedges because they generally had better stability, and the guys back at the lab texturized the bottoms of hers so she could practically run on greasy ice without falling - while mucking through a swamp in the Congo.

"Hush now," she grinned and dragged him back to the present. "C'mon. We've got to get checked in and be lounging by the pool by three. Delta's info said there'd be a window at four, and you need to be nice and obnoxiously drunk by three forty five."

He sighed and dropped his head back to glare at the ceiling. "Why do I always have to be the drunk one?"

"Is it my fault you look like a drunkard?"

"Given the fact that you always make me the drunk one, yes."

She just grinned and tweaked his nose. "Come on, John. Let's go be married and score a few margaritas before saving the world."

"Well. As long as they're paying." -fin-

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