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It’s insane.
It is all fucking insane.
Hopper’s just unloaded a machine gun into a group of Russian officers, and now the three of them are trying to undress them with as much dignity as they can so they can pose as officers themselves. All in all, not how Joyce envisioned this mission going.
“Here,” Murray says beside her, tossing over a uniform jacket. “This one’ll probably fit you the best.”
She stares at it, eyebrow arched. Even crumpled on the ground as it is, she knows it’ll drown her. The pants Murray is undoing won’t be any better. “Are we sure about this?”
Murray rolls his eyes and jerks his chin towards Hopper. “We don’t really have a choice, do we?” he snaps, a thread of panic in it. “Your boyfriend got all trigger happy.”
“Shut up,” Hopper grumbles from her other side. “You tried talking and they clearly didn’t believe you. We’ll blend in this way.” Under his breath, he adds, “Not her boyfriend.”
She doesn’t know why that sends a stab of disappointment through her.
Murray finds a supply closet and ducks into it with a peeved glance over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding it at all, “but neither of you are seeing me shirtless.” Joyce refrains from pointing out that he’s been running around in a white undershirt for the last two days.
Hopper scoffs. “What, are we supposed to take turns in there? We don’t have time for that.”
“And we didn’t have time for you to open fire into a group of officers either, but here we are.” Murray shakes his head, exasperated. “Just… I don’t know, turn your backs or something. Or get it over with, just keep it quiet so I don’t have to hear you.” He steps into the closet and closes the door with a pointed click.
Joyce glances at Hopper, who looks away the second their eyes meet. “I…” She shrugs, suddenly flustered. “We really, uh, don’t have a lot of time.”
“Yeah.” He’s flushed, still looking everywhere but at her. “Look, I’m sorry about him, okay?” he mutters. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Something burns in her chest. “Shut up,” she says, unable to stand it any longer, and grabs at his collar. He freezes when her lips meet his, stunned, and she presses herself flush to his body, heart pounding in her throat. There’s no time for this, but they might die tonight, and she’s tired of being at odds. Finally, he snaps out of it and takes her face in both hands, parting her lips with his tongue. She ends up pressed between him and the wall, arms twining around his neck, and it’s everything she thought it might be. She’s hungry for him, desperate, and his low groan when she tugs at his hair tells her he feels it too.
This scenario has popped up far too often in her recent guilty daydreams. Pinned against him, his calloused hands cradling her jaw and grasping at her back. They’re in immediate danger but she wants to stay right here and let him have his way with her.
When she finally pulls back for air, his pupils are blown, his chest heaving. “Jesus,” he manages. “Hell did that come from?”
“Come on, Hop.” She’s bold, suddenly, trailing her fingers down his cheek. He reaches for her wrist and turns his head to kiss her palm, looking dazed. “We were always gonna end up here, right?”
“I…” He shakes his head, hand coming up to curl through her hair. “I was hoping, yeah.”
“I know.” She pulls him closer again, pressing up onto her toes. “Kiss me again?”
“Joyce,” he groans right as their lips meet, and the tremble in his voice sends a full-body shiver through her. His hands slide down to her ass and she jumps on instinct, legs locking around his waist, hands twisted into his ridiculous shirt. Vaguely, she wonders how long they’ve been doing this, but he’s hard between her legs, tangible evidence of how much he wants this, and it’s difficult to think about anything else. She rolls her hips into his, slow and deliberate, and he curses into her mouth.
She loses herself in it, in the wanting. There’s enough clarity in her mind that she knows they can’t do everything they want to, but she moves against him with abandon regardless. There are too many layers between them; she wants to touch him properly. He’s strong under her hands, solid and safe and masculine, and she decides that when they get out of this, she’s going to wrap herself around him, skin to skin, and make him hers. He moans her name and it sends a jolt of heat to her core, knowing she’s the reason he’s coming undone. Part of her wants to throw caution to the wind and rip his clothes off anyway, let him fuck her against the wall.
Something clatters in the closet, and they both freeze. “Shit,” she breathes, heart hammering, face warm. He lets her down awkwardly, and she has to consciously remind herself to let go of his shirt. His blue eyes are wide, his hair disheveled where she’s run her hands through it. She wants to reel him back in and press herself into his body.
“I’m sorry.” He looks stricken.
“It’s okay.” Her voice comes out rough. All she can think about is kissing him again. Shaking her head, she reaches to the floor for their discarded uniforms. “We should…”
“Yeah.” He turns away from her, and a few seconds later she hears the rustle of his shirt falling to the floor. It takes effort not to turn around.
The uniform is massive on her, the green fabric swallowing her up; she has to roll the cuffs of the pants up four times just to walk in them. The leather strap across the chest proves a difficulty - which is stupid because it should be easy - and she curses on her fifth attempt to get it to lie flat.
“Here.” He must have turned around at some point. Under normal circumstances, she might have snapped at him for it. Now, though, she lets him fix what she can’t. His fingers linger when he’s done, warm even through the thick cloth. “That should be okay,” he says quietly, breath ruffling her hair.
“Thanks.” She turns to face him, hands reaching out of their own accord to fix his collar.
“Joyce.” He says it like a prayer, still looking a little lost. It’s different from how he’s been saying it over the last few days, and she likes this much better. He shakes his head again, gives her a soft, tentative smile. “Can I take you to dinner?” he asks. “After we get out of this?”
She grins, unable to help it. “It’s a date.”
He blinks, surprised. She fucking loves catching him off guard. “Okay,” he says finally, gazing at her like he’s seeing her for the first time. She wants to kiss him again so badly, so she leans up.
Their lips are inches apart when the closet door bangs open. “Well, well.” Murray’s voice is unbearably smug. “It’s about time. Now let’s go.”
Mood broken, they go. Hopper’s hand finds hers as they make their way down the hall, fingers squeezing quickly.
When they make it out of this, they'll try. What more do they have to lose?