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Forget The Morning

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The safehouse door clunks shut behind her and Nile allows herself a second to slump against it. Technically she’s all healed by now - the last bullets punched through her a couple hours ago, and all that’s left now are the ragged holes and blood splatters not really visible on her black shirt. She doesn’t even get exhausted the same way she used to, comes down from the adrenaline high to find her muscles already repaired and ready to go another round or three.

Andy barely notices, prowling into the dark warehouse and slinging her backpack off her shoulder and into a corner. She flips a switch somewhere and after a moment the lights blink on far overhead.

Andy took a shotgun blast to the face and though her cheekbone is fully repaired, as high and unfair as ever, she’s still smeared in blood and sticky tangles of her hair clinging to her skin. She shrugs out of her jacket and examines her shirt. There are a couple of holes torn through it, but less than Nile’s.

“Did you call the guys yet?” Andy asks, jolting Nile out of her thoughts. She pats the phone in her pocket out of habit and nods at Andy’s raised eyebrow.

“Texted them on the way. They’ll meet us here tomorrow morning,” Nile says.

“Are they - ”

“Bringing food, yeah.”

“Thank fuck. There’s some MREs here but they’re about as old as you are.” Andy kicks one of the boxes over and a handful of familiar beige packets tumble out. It makes Nile’s heart ache stupidly and she wonders idly when the memories of her old life will stop sneaking up and sucker punching her. Probably not for another couple of centuries, at least.

“Good enough for tonight, I guess,” Andy says, crouching down to sort through them. She pulls a couple out of the pile, squints at the labels, and tosses them to Nile. “Catch.”

The labels tell her she’s holding chicken stew and ham slice, though she doubts the entrees would pass for anything edible after this long in a dingy warehouse. But DLA crackers will probably be the last things left after global warming kills the planet, along with the cockroaches and Nile and the team, and she manages to break off a chunk of one with only moderate jaw strain.

“I miss real fucking food,” grumbles Andy. She’s got her own MREs disassembled in front of her, looking distastefully at them. “All this shit just tastes like chemicals. Humanity’s made some strides over the years but we really fucked up food.” She tips a packet of M&Ms into her mouth anyway. Nile smears hot sauce over the next cracker in the hopes of softening it up a little. Her teeth will heal but she’d rather not splinter them on dinner if she can help it.

“You know what I miss?” she asks.

“Half your shots?”

“Fuck off. I miss chili mac, that stuff was great.” Sprawled out in the dirt with Stace and Dizzy, shoveling MREs down cold because it was too hot to bust out the flameless ration heaters. Her heart pangs in her chest.

“I guess there’s some things immortality can’t fix after all. Your poor taste buds.” Andy’s looking at her, hand paused halfway to tipping a packet of hot cocoa mix into her mouth dry, and it should be completely ridiculous. Nile’s whole life is completely ridiculous, now, in ways that hit her sideways when she’s not braced for it. Andy’s eyes are so goddamn old, though, and they shred holes in whatever plausible deniability Nile’s managed to swaddle herself in.

“I haven’t eaten horse meat in three hundred years,” Andy offers.

About a week after all the shit with Merrick went down, Nile snuck away to a library and did as much googling as she could on the Scythians; enough to determine, among other things, that Andy was definitely full of shit because if she was telling the truth about her age, she was way older than anything that might someday come to be known as Scythia. The historical record from that long ago was fragmentary at best, but the picture Nile got in her head - Andy tall-shouldered on horseback, blade in hand, surrounded by people speaking a language that sounded like nothing she’d ever heard before - tore at the lonely parts of her that just wanted to curl up on her mom’s couch and bask in the familiar scent.

She chokes the thought down. “What’s it taste like?”

Andy tips her head back against the wall behind her and closes her eyes, throat working for a moment, remembering. “A little like beef. A little sweet.”

“We’ll have to go to Mongolia or something, get you some.”

Andy’s mouth curls into an amused smile. “What, so you can mix it with your chili mac?” she says. Nile snorts and shakes her head, shoving another piece of cracker into her mouth to keep herself from laughing. Andy lapses into silence, combing flakes of dried blood out of her hair with her fingers and then braiding it back out of her face. It’s wildly impractical, the way she wears it, and the Marine in Nile keeps wincing about grooming standards. Of course, then she sees it in a fight, a banner in the wind trailing Andy, and maybe she gets it a little.

“Do I have something on my face?” asks Andy. Nile thinks about making a snide remark, but finds she can’t come up with anything when Andy is looking at her like that, heady and tired and fond.

Instead, Nile stands and goes to lean against the wall beside her. Andy doesn’t turn to face her directly, but the corners of her eyes shift. She’s got a predator’s coiled body and a prey animal’s eyes, always jumping from place to place for the next threat.

“Little something right here.” Nile licks her thumb and smudges some of the blood and gunpowder residue off of Andy’s cheekbone. She’ll need an actual shower to clean it off, and the red just smears around under Nile’s finger, but Andy laughs and swats her hand away.

Or, she starts to swat it away, and then catches Nile’s wrist and twists around to pin her up against the wall. Her hand reaches behind the arch of Nile’s back to tug her Beretta out of her waistband, in a smooth motion that Nile might’ve been able to counter if she were less distracted. Might.

“Whoa - hey - ” Andy gives her a look that very clearly communicates I am not impressed, and also stop thinking with your pussy, Freeman, or at least that’s what Nile reads into it. She thumbs the safety off and then back on.

“Guys won’t get here until morning, so we’ve got time. Any plans for tonight?” asks Andy, like she isn’t busily taking whatever dynamic they have and standing it on its head. Her mouth is half-curved into a dangerous grin, and her arm is braced across Nile’s collarbone - not hard, not yet at least, but steady, and Nile isn’t pushing.

They’ve taken up sparring in the last couple months. Nile missed it with her girls in the Corps, tossing each other around into the dirt more for fun than for actual training, and Andy knows fighting like she knows breathing, pulling moves from styles that must have died out centuries ago. It’s exhilarating, and if the hot press of Andy’s body up against hers makes its way into Nile’s fantasies once or twice when she’s got her hand down her underwear, that’s just a fun bonus.

“Well.” She glances up, makes a show of assessing the mostly empty warehouse before her eyes land back on Andy’s. “I was thinking about watching the game, maybe catching up on my reading.” Andy’s grin widens.

“Oh yeah?” She presses the side of the pistol to Nile’s hip, scraping the edge of the barrel against the rivet on her jeans. Nile feels herself melt a little.

“Why, did you have something else in mind?”

“Lot of ways to pass the time.” Andy’s eyebrows climb high on her forehead, as if Nile could have possibly missed the hint. An offering - God or fate or whoever took so much from Nile, but her team’s done their level best to fill the cracks, and here’s Andy, still offering more. If Nile wants it.

Nile leans in, straining against Andy’s arm, and seals their mouths together.

Andy lets her go immediately in order to curl her fingers around the back of Nile’s head, tracing fingers over where a bullet shattered her skull last week, and Nile melts the rest of the way. Apparently killing isn’t the only thing Andy’s spent the last six-odd millennia perfecting. She tastes faintly like chocolate, and mostly like salt-sweat and saliva. The kiss is overwhelming, and Nile is grateful for the wall at her back and Andy steady at her front because she’s fairly sure she’d end up on the floor otherwise.

A knee presses her thighs apart and grinds up hard and Nile moans, scrambling to keep up. She shoves her hands up the back of Andy’s shirt, dragging her palms over smooth, unscarred flesh. Andy’s mouth pulls away and Nile tries to chase it but the hand in her hair turns her head deftly so that Andy can sink her teeth into the angle of Nile’s throat and jaw.

“Hold still,” Andy hums against her skin, and the goosebumps chase each other up Nile’s spine. She wedges herself up against the wall, braces her boots on the floor and nods minutely against Andy’s head. She can do that.

Andy’s fingers are quick and clever on her jeans, and she gets her empty hand down against Nile, gives her something even better to grind up against, and staying still is - a lot harder than she thought. Jesus christ, Andy’s not even touching her bare skin, but she’s managed to get the seam of Nile’s underwear angled just right to drag over her clit and Nile has to force an exhale out over her trembling jaw. Andy smiles wicked against her throat.

The flat barrel of her pistol, still in Andy’s confident hand, presses against her hip, and Nile bucks against Andy.

“I said hold still,” Andy chides. She waits for a long moment, gives Nile the space to pull herself together, and then the hand down her pants tugs her waistband down, underwear and all, just over the curve of her ass. The air in the warehouse is chilly, but between them there’s nothing but heat. Nile is fucking soaking in some kind of crossed-wires Pavlovian response that makes her thighs clench and her hips roll upwards when her lizard brain manages to remind her that Andy is still holding her gun.

Every firearm safety lesson Nile’s had drilled into her runs through her head in a jumble, and they all thoroughly vacate the premises the moment Andy drags the body-warm barrel down through the folds of her cunt.

Nile cries out, an embarrassing, squeaky noise, and Andy nips at her earlobe and grinds the gun against her. She’s wet as sin, sticky strands of it smoothing down her pubic hair and making the drag easier, slicking up the barrel. The slide presses against her clit and she groans and wraps her forearm around the back of Andy’s neck, clumsily drawing her up to kiss her again.

Andy slips into a rhythm with the ease of hundreds, thousands of years of practice ruining women for anyone else. Her free hand crawls up Nile’s shirt and bra to cup her breast and she pinches her nipple, drags her tongue over the back of Nile’s teeth and slips the gun an inch lower all at once. Nile sees stars and claws at the back of Andy’s shirt.

“Good, good, there you go.” Andy’s mumbling the words into Nile’s mouth, the same tone she used when Nile managed to actually get one over on her and flip her the other day, and Nile’s never going to be able to look her in the eyes after sparring again.

The muzzle presses against her entrance and Nile moans with her whole body. There’s no way to make penetration work at this angle, but the mere suggestion of it, the idea of Andy spreading her out properly on a mattress somewhere and fucking her with her weapon, stokes the fire at the base of her spine.

“I’m - fuck, I’m close,” she manages to pant, and Andy takes that as a cue to push harder. The slick barrel spreads her open and Andy holds it there, grinds the rear sight against her pubic mound and the slight, rocking sting of pain does her in.

She’s pretty sure, if she thinks about it later, she’ll have all kinds of flowery metaphors for this orgasm. A waterfall, or a hurricane, or a forest fire - forces of nature feel appropriate for Andy, scraping blunt nails against her rib cage and licking messily over her jaw and keeping up that fucking rhythm the whole time. It’s a protracted arching of her back, toes curling in her steel-capped boots and her hips bucking helplessly against that steady, overwhelming friction.

Finally, finally it bleeds through her, and she comes back to herself. She’s got her hands tangled up in Andy’s hair, the braid half-undone, and her bare ass is scraping against the rough concrete wall, and under her shirt one of her tits is hanging out under her bra. Andy’s surprisingly gentle when she pulls the gun out of Nile’s underwear, and annoyingly careless when she tosses it somewhere beside them.

Nile drops to her knees, or more accurately her knees drop out from under her. Whatever - the important part is, she grabs Andy’s hips and twists her around to back her up against the wall. Andy looks down at her, pride and greed and probably a couple other deadly sins warring for real estate on her face, and leans into the wall.

Something sheepishly fond curls in Nile’s belly when she gets Andy’s pants open and realizes she’s just as wet as Nile is. She leans in and noses at her for a moment, half-testing to see if she can get a rise out of Andy, but apparently her millennia have imbued her with enough patience to just slide a hand into Nile’s hair instead, cup the other palm over her trapezius and give her a flat look.

“You waiting for permission, Freeman?”

Nile’s never been able to resist an older woman. She moves in with an urgency, dragging Andy’s folds open with her thumbs and lapping into her hungrily. It’s been a bit since she’s done this - not since before she was deployed, shit - but it’s like riding a bike, or firing her M4. Andy curves under her, her hands a guide on Nile, and Nile obliges and drags her tongue higher, scrapes Andy’s clit with the barest edge of her teeth.

Yet again, they slip into the perfect rhythm they found on that first mission into Merrick’s headquarters. Andy moves, and Nile’s right there waiting for her, lapping and sucking. She presses hot, damp kisses to the crease of Andy’s thigh for a moment until Andy’s hand tightens in her hair and urges her to dive back into her cunt, and Nile goes eagerly.

Andy’s wound up, and Nile hasn’t lost her touch, because it’s not long before her breath is staggering and her hands shaking. Nile strokes her tongue up her slick folds, toys with the idea of pressing inside her and rejects it to suck hard on her clit instead, and Andy comes with a gasp against her mouth.

She doesn’t ride it out there, instead hauling Nile up to kiss her soundless. Her teeth are sharp, scraping over Nile’s lip, and Nile bites back on reflex. For an absurd moment she’s the one holding up Andy, hands wrapped over her shuddering hips like she can shield Andy from anything. Like Andy’s in any need of shielding. Eventually, Andy’s hands find purchase against Nile’s shoulders and gently, firmly press them apart to breathe.

Nile drops back down, managing to haul her pants most of the way up before she hits the ground. She slumps her shoulders back against the wall, twisting her neck a little to work the beginnings of a cramp out of it. There’s no point, her undying muscles will smooth out before it blooms into anything, but the habit is still there and she doesn’t see a reason not to indulge it.

“Athena’s tits,” Andy swears, sinking down the wall to sit on her ass beside her. She makes sex-rumpled look composed, like her mussed hair and the welt already healing on her lip were completely intentional. Nile decides this shirt is a lost cause already and wipes her face on the collar, straightening her bra out with the other hand.

“That good, huh?” she says, raising her eyebrows at Andy. Andy snorts and aims a loopy, lazy kick at Nile’s shin, fumbling under her for something in her back pocket. She pulls out a flattened pack of cigarettes and lights one up.

“Don’t get cocky, kid. You still got a lot to learn.”

“Yeah, that means you liked it.” Nile glances away - the warehouse is exactly as shitty as it was earlier, old tarps and boxes of random equipment in a jumble in the corner. It’s definitely the post-sex haze making it look almost cozy. She looks back in time to catch Andy flexing a dry smile in her general direction and exhaling smoke into the muggy air between them.

“Why my gun?” she asks after a long moment. Andy’s eyes dance merrily at her, sparking in the cherry-red light of her cigarette.

“I brained a guy with the haft of my labrys earlier. Figured you wouldn’t want that going inside you until I got a chance to clean it off properly,” she says.

“Fucking hell. Are you trying to kill me, Andy?” Nile asks. Her hands have mostly stopped shaking, trading adrenaline for marrow-deep exhaustion, and her sweatily overheated skin is starting to chill as she comes down, but she still feels a fresh wave of arousal course through her at the thought. They don’t have another job lined up after this one yet. She wonders if she can get Copley to find something the guys can handle on their own.

“Come on, Nile, give me some credit. If I was trying to kill you, you’d be a Marine-flavored smear right now,” she says, fondly.

Nile grins and lets her eyes slip closed, sinking further against the wall. Before long she’ll need to clean up properly, as much as they can right now, and get ready to rendezvous with the rest of the team come daylight. Right now though, she’s pleasantly worn, the post-fight rush chased right out of her and leaving her content to sit with Andy in the dim light and listen to the steady, even cadence of her breaths.