There's an unspoken rule that Lyn-Z and Frank aren't to be put on the same assignment, but it's a busy month and schedules are conflicting and Toro doesn't seem to quite realize what he's done until the briefing when they both show up. Lyn-Z can practically see the dismay appear on his face in slow-mo as he takes them in.
"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, like they can't hear him or some shit, then takes a deep breath and proceeds to tell them why their mark's enemies are shelling out to see him dead. There's definite tension as they get instructions to be as stealth-like as the two of them can manage.
Lyn-Z doesn't glare at Frank. She's bigger than that. It takes more power of will than she’d like, though.
It isn't that she dislikes Frank. It isn't even that she's jealous. (Not of him, not... just no. None of them need strings in this business.) It's just that they've clashed at every turn since her squad merged with his, and it makes for sloppy work.
Frank manages to keep quiet for the first hour of staking out the mark's house before bursting out with, "Fuck procedure, I'm capping this dude and getting on with my night."
Lyn-Z huffs. She doesn't want to, but it happens anyway. "Awesome, if you get arrested I'm not telling anyone where you are."
"Dude's not gonna get in our sights," Frank says, spitting towards the house.
Lyn-Z says, "Evidence, dumbass."
"I've somehow managed to make it this far without your advice," Frank snaps.
She’s about to retort, point out that her record is cleaner than his, but the truth is that Lyn-Z is totally in favor of snuffing the bastard and getting out of there, and if it'd been anyone else she would have gone for it already. "Let's get this over with," she says, because she’s not gonna punish herself just to annoy Frank.
They’d already established that a shot through the window was unfeasible, so they break in. Slipping through the darkened house, Lyn-Z feels the same familiar thrill of nervousness and excitement in her stomach as always, reminding her of why she loves this job.
She glances back; Frank’s grinning sharp-bright and practically vibrating with excitement, and she thinks he gets it. Nothing like danger to get the blood coursing through your veins, and the knowledge that someone is going to die tonight just adds the perfect amount of extra intensity. In calmer moments she’s not proud of this feeling, but right now it’s just sweet enough and just thrilling enough that she doesn’t care.
The mark is still hunched over his computer when they push open the door to his study and there is a brief, furious argument using only hand motions between them to figure out who is going to fire the shot. Frank wins by virtue of abandoning the argument and pulling the trigger before she can raise her own gun.
She elbows him in the side and covers her mouth to hide her giggles when Frank gets caught off-guard and trips, falling against the desk and then staring in horror at the resulting bloody scrape on his arm. “Shit!”
“It’s only a scratch,” she says, moving forward to check that the mark is dead. He is, though the shot wasn’t as clean as she’d like. It looks sloppy.
“Weren’t you the one bitching about evidence?” Frank shot back, scrubbing at the desk with the edge of his shirt. “Toro’s gonna shit himself.”
“Well,” Lyn-Z says, only offering up the suggestion because she’s feeling a little put out she didn’t get any of the action. “We could destroy the evidence.”
Frank looks at her. She looks at him.
Twenty minutes later she’s rigged up the natural gas system, and she and Frank get out just in time to avoid the burst of flames that race through the house. She laughs, watching the flames that no one else would have let her set, and Frank’s eyes are scary-bright in the flickering light.
She doesn’t even think it’s strange when, a mere mile from the site, he pulls over, tosses his phone in the back seat and leans across the console to sloppily kiss her. His hands tug at her jacket and she responds enthusiastically, blood hot from the thrill of shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t risk this, and she’s not sure if it’s a product of the kiss or excitement left over from starting the fire, but she doesn’t even fucking care.
“It’s gonna look amateurish,” she says into Frank’s mouth, putting one knee over the console so she can straddle him, awkward though it is with the steering wheel in her back. She can still smell the smoke, the sharp scent of blood, and in the distance she can hear the first sirens.
“They’re never gonna put us together again,” Frank replies, working a hand under her shirt and groaning as she leans forward just right against him. His hand tightens on her breast and he squirms underneath her, trying to get the perfect friction.
She thinks he sounds almost hopeful, and wonders if maybe he’s as decidedly not jealous of her as she is of him. She pushes the thought away as he pinches her nipple, pushing up against him trying to get more.
It’s not unusual for her to get fired up after a hit, but she doesn’t always act on it, and that makes indulging all the sweeter, especially as she’s not holding herself back. Frank is palming her roughly, mumbling a steady stream of curses, and she cuts him off by kissing him, pulling back with his lower lip caught between her teeth.
“Fuck,” he says, lip swollen. He works his hand between her legs, and Lyn-Z bites back a comment about liking him better when he was making himself useful.
She doesn’t want him to stop; Frank can give as good as he gets. He rubs her through her jeans, his hand trapped between their bodies as she presses herself against his hand as hard as she can, getting the perfect angle and bucking her hips against him.
There’s little technique and even less finesse, but Lyn-Z doesn’t mind, not with the waves of pleasure in her lower belly and how close to the brink she is.
There, there, she thinks, feeling just the right pressure in just the right spot, and comes hard, thighs shaking as she slumps against him and, as an afterthought, reaches down to help finish him off.
Their hands bump awkwardly together and Lyn-Z’s in a good enough mood to giggle into his neck when he groans as he comes in his pants.
“Good thing you’re wearing black,” she mumbled, managing to gracelessly tumble back into her own seat, narrowly avoiding kicking him and giggling, feeling more than a little punch-drunk from the orgasm and the adrenaline and the fading thrill of the job.
He flips her off, but there’s a hint of a smile instead of his usual snarl, and Lyn-Z thinks that the job’s going to get a lot more interesting after this.