#and damens like that's not some blond its my gd husband

[redwritinghood]

for a lamen writing prompt maybe something like enenmy secret agents or assassins

YES. ngl though kinda gets soft rather than action/adventure-y 

—

A shadow fell over Damen’s desk and he knew he was about to get bad news. Nikandros never loomed behind him to ask what bar they were going to after work.

“What’s up?” Damen turned in his chair and looked up at Nik’s dark expression.

“You’re being taken off field duty,” he said and folded his arms, guarding against Damen’s objections.

“Why?” Damen asked standing.

“Intel has discovered a hit was put out on you and an assassin has already accepted the job.”

“That doesn’t mean I should be taken off field duty,” Damen said.

“Yes,” Nik emphasized his words, “it does.”

“That’s what the person who put the hit out wants. I’m obviously on to something with my case. Besides, I have to go outside at some point, you can’t keep me locked away in the building.”

Nikandros stood firm in his decision, staring Damen down with no chance of relenting.

“Nik—” Damen began.

“Don’t even start.”

“Just let me—”

“No. Desk duty.” Nik ended the conversation by marching away.

The threat was bothersome but Damen determinedly went about his daily schedule. Only under scrutiny did he realize how predictable his routine was. Particularly the mornings. After the gym, he went to the same cafe and made an excellent target when he sat outside to eat his breakfast. There were even tall buildings across the street, an ideal place for a sniper to nest and take him out. This was where Damen would set his trap.

“Damn it, Damen, you aren’t even trying to be careful.” Nikandros’s shadow loomed over Damen’s desk and he turned in his chair to look up at the grumpy expression.

“You said desk duty and I’ve been here, at my desk, for over a week.”

“That doesn’t matter if you’re just going to walk around the city unprotected.” 

“Exactly,” Damen agreed, “I’m more likely to be shot outside of work, so you should probably just let me back on my case.”

For a moment, Nikandros was speechless. “You’re unbelievable. I’ll start having you escorted to and from work in an armored vehicle if that’s what it takes.”

“No thanks, I’ll handle this myself,” Damen said.

“Handle what yourself?” Nikandros asked. His face was darkening to an unhealthy color.

“My assassin,” Damen said. Nikandros opened his mouth then closed it, a vein prominent on his forehead. Damen had mercy, and said, “As in I think after Friday I’ll be working from home.”

Nikandros recovered enough to say, “Fine,” before he stormed off.

Damen had been certain to follow his same routine for a week, most importantly taking his breakfast outside the cafe. Everything else he let vary to be certain the assassin considered the cafe was the best place to strike. Now he just had to force the date and time. Only two days until Friday and Damen continued his morning routine, but was careful when he visited the cafe. One morning he’d been purposefully late so his breakfast went with him to the office, the next day he was fortunate the forecast had been reliable and ate inside to avoid the rain. 

His assassin had to know Friday would be their last chance. The night before, Damen prepared, packing his gym bag differently than normal. His body thrummed with nervous energy. He was excited.

At the cafe, Damen had to plan his moves carefully. His pulse was loud in his ears as he stepped outside claiming his usual table. After setting his breakfast down he re-entered the building hoping it appeared like he planned on returning to his meal and the sniper would wait. Instead, Damen went out the back, pulling his hood over his head he bolted across the street far enough from the cafe to go unnoticed. The schematics for the buildings had been obtained through work and he had used them to memorize the quickest path to the place a sniper would likely set up camp.

The gun came out of the shoulder holster when he was close to where he predicted the sniper would be. The top two floors were empty, closed off for construction until someone bought the office space. The area was plywood walls, with multiple trip hazards, and plastic flapping in the breeze. It was exactly where a movie or tv show would depict a waiting assassin. 

He turned the corner and aimed the handgun at nothing. The space was empty. Damen could barely hear over his heartbeat. His stomach had dropped with disappointment. Carefully he approached one of the open windows where the hot summer air blew in uninhibited. The cafe was easily visible, he could even see a pigeon attacking his breakfast sandwich. This was the best vantage point for a sniper. 

Unless. 

Unless the person he was looking for never did the expected. Damen thought quickly. Where would there be another vantage point? 

There was another spot. The adjacent building had its large industrial AC units on the roof. They would hide a person easily, but the line of sight would be a different angle. Even an experienced marksman would have some difficulty lining up the shot. 

It was loud. The flat rooftop vibrated. The large units and giant exhaust pipes created a maze. Gun still in hand, he approached the probable sniper spot. There wasn’t a clear view, he couldn’t tell if an assassin waited only a few feet away. 

A sharp beam of sunlight reflected into his eyes. He threw up a hand seeing a singular bright spot near the ledge. It was a small mirror. 

Damen’s heart was in his throat. The assassin had been able to see him coming. He turned in time. A figure dressed entirely in black rolled out from behind a vent pipe, rifle braced to the shoulder. Damen dove for cover barely fitting between the metal units. The assassin was swift and nimble, leaping onto the platform above Damen. He grabbed the attacker’s ankle and the body hit with a metallic hollow thump. On his back, he aimed the rifle at Damen’s face. Only a foot away, Damen was able to catch the barrel and redirect it away from his body. Black boots kicked off Damen’s chest, he slid backward off the unit and ripped the rifle from Damen’s grasp. 

There was a glimpse of the figure as the assassin disappeared into another row. Smaller than Damen, he hid easily. Whereas Damen had to crouch down to keep from being seen. The motors from the ACs masked most sounds and unable to rely on sound or vision, Damen had to trust his instincts. 

Just a flash of black was seen from his peripheral, but it gave him enough time to turn and block an assault. Too close to use the rifle like a gun, the assassin had swung it as a club. The blow had landed on Damen’s forearm. It stung but he reached out to catch the black figure. He would undoubtedly have the upper hand in wrestling or hand-to-hand combat. 

His arm was kicked aside, the movement grounded in a martial arts stance. Damen squared-off, a balanced position. The assassin’s face was hidden beneath a black hood so Damen wouldn’t be able to read the expressions and interpret the next move. It came with speed and agility, using the rifle like a bo staff. Damen had to block both the gun and another kick. He tried to snatch the rifle but still held his own gun and only had the one free hand. The assassin was skilled, more acrobatic, using the varying heights of the units to his advantage. It made Damen have to evade spinning kicks at head height. 

It was very impressive. The ninja-like skill of the assassin was a contrast to Damen’s sturdy defense. The only advantage was speed, there wasn’t enough power to do serious harm, and Damen was mostly concerned with the rifle. The enemy was smart, knowing to stay out of reach and use the gun like two separate weapons. It had to be blocked when used as a club and avoided when the barrel pointed at him. All of this was done while fending off the distracting barrage of attacks. 

Damen moved backward, careful of tripping hazards, and eventually stepped into a clearing where he thought he would have the advantage. Damen took the offensive, also experienced in martial arts. His opponent was skilled even without the help of the varying terrain. He moved deftly, skirting the edge of Damen’s reach. He caught the rifle and only had the one hand to hold on with. The assassin tried turning the gun to dislodge Damen’s grip, but he held on. Quickly, he pushed forward, walking the assassin back into a corner, and trapped him against the brick. Damen’s body held him there, unable to escape, the rifle a hard line between them. 

Damen ripped off the hood. Blond hair spilled out into piercing blue eyes. The pale face flushed from exertion. Their bodies pressed together, Damen could feel him trying to catch his breath.

A golden brow lifted, “You’re getting slow.”

“You put a hit out on me?” Damen asked.

“Now you look more important. How many agents can boast an assassination attempt?”

“Laurent,” Damen groaned.

“If I were actually here to kill you, you’d be dead. I know I’m the best but you should be more careful.”

“I was fairly certain it was you.”

“And what if it wasn’t? What were you going to do with that unloaded pistol?”

“You’re carrying around a paintball gun.” Damen released the rifle and so did Laurent. It fell and there were only clothes between them. “There’s a clip in my pocket,” Damen stated.

“That’s something I suppose. Now about your schedule—”

“I know,” Damen said, “I’ll work on that. What else am I doing wrong?”

“You haven’t kissed me yet,” Laurent said, blue eyes bright.

The handgun clattered to the ground. Damen pulled him close with a strong grip on the slim waist. Laurent’s lips parted and eyelashes dipped in anticipation of the kiss. Damen stroked a thumb along his jaw, briefly cementing the moment in his mind before he leaned in to take Laurent’s mouth. Laurent went to his toes, hands traveled up Damen’s arms to circle his neck and bring him closer. 

There was an urgency. A need. It had been too long. Damen couldn’t seem to hold Laurent close enough. He pressed him back into the wall and lifted him with hands beneath his thighs, bouncing him once for a steadier hold. Laurent assisted by wrapping legs around his waist. Damen reclaimed his mouth and Laurent made a soft sound, body arching into Damen’s.  

“I’ve missed you,” Damen breathed, his face turned into the slender neck. 

Laurent’s hands tangled in his hair, the grip almost painful with his fierce hold. “Fuck me,” he said.

“Here? On a rooftop?”

“Yes.”

“We can go to the apartment—”

“Now,” Laurent said, desperation roughening his voice.

“What about—”

Laurent moved his hips, just so, and the air escaped Damen. Leaning in with mouth against his ear he said, “I’ve already prepared.”

Damen nearly fell over. “Okay,” he choked.

—

As an internationally wanted assassin and government secret agent, they tried to not be seen together. Damen took a cab to the apartment. Laurent got there somehow. He was climbing through the window as Damen unlocked the door.

“Perhaps we should hire a maid.” Laurent swiped his fingers across the dusty desk. The apartment was only used when they were both in town, which wasn’t often, it could be a financial drain but was a more reliable hiding place than a hotel.

“Hey, get over here,” Damen said, throwing the blankets off the bed. Laurent complied, smiling as Damen pulled him down into the sheets. It was clumsy at first, with the same rushed need as the rooftop, but this time clothes were coming off. Laurent’s outfit was convoluted and frustrating like always.

“Do you think you’re Batman or something?” Damen grumbled after struggling with knee and elbow pads only to discover wrist sheaths complete with six-inch blades.

“I’d probably look good in a cape,” Laurent said, watching with amusement as Damen fought the buckles and straps. 

There was a pile of weapons when they were finished. Damen knew they would have to sort through them later. It would be very hard to explain how his government-issued firearms had ended up in the hands of an assassin.

—

“I missed you too.” Laurent languidly rolled onto his back, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“How long are you staying?” Damen asked, moving to kiss his bare shoulder.

“I have a plane tomorrow night.”

“That’s not long enough,” Damen groaned, dropping his head into Laurent’s neck.

“I know,” Laurent said, stroking Damen’s hair. “We have Paris in two months.”

“You’re not going to forget?”

“I didn’t forget about New York, I couldn’t make it and I’ve apologized a hundred times. Besides this is our anniversary.” Laurent lifted his hand into the sunlight filtering in through the window. He wore the gold woven band shaped to look like a laurel wreath. Damen's matching ring was worn on a chain around his neck. He wished he could wear it on his hand but no one knew he was married. 

“What’s the gift for five years?” Damen asked.

“Wood,” Laurent replied, still admiring his ring.

“I have that now,” Damen said, rolling over on top of him. 

Laurent snorted, unamused, “While I envy your stamina, you are lacking in wit.” He sat up pushing Damen off. “I need food.”

Once dinner was ordered and delivered, Laurent explained the new pink scar on his bicep and told of his recent adventure in Iceland. Damen suspected he downplayed the violence and danger.

“Where are you going after this?” Damen had settled in behind Laurent, hugging him to his chest face resting against the back of the blond head.

“Home. Briefly.”

“I haven’t been to France since—”

“Since you arrested me?”

“I was going to say since we met,” Damen said. “I didn’t technically arrest you.”

“No, you just cuffed me to a bed.”

“You were being a pain in the ass,” Damen laughed, absently running his knuckles along the naked pale thigh. 

Five years ago, Damen had been given the task of gathering evidence against a corrupt politician, only to constantly have Laurent in his way, even appearing as a waiter at a fundraising event. Threats of incarceration hadn’t frightened him away. At the time if Damen had known who Laurent really was he wouldn’t have simply used threats, but instead thought he was a lackey being used to distract Damen from his case. At the party, the mini-feud had escalated to Damen tying Laurent to a bed, which had escalated to something else. Laurent then shared a partial truth that the corrupt politician was his uncle and he was after him for personal vengeance. A tentative partnership had been formed and from there the chaos had only escalated, ending in a marriage.

For the agency, it was still an open case, and for Laurent, it was his main mission. He had even claimed he would retire afterward and made a joke about becoming a trophy wife. Damen wasn’t optimistic, Laurent liked his adventures and he secretly worried he couldn’t keep him entertained. 

They had fallen into a comfortable silence. While Damen petted Laurent, he removed the chain from Damen’s neck and slipped the ring onto his finger where it belonged. Laurent held his hand next to Damen’s comparing the bands while on the appropriate finger. Endeared by the quiet reverie, Damen held him a little closer.

Laurent turned in his arms, kneeling, face above Damen’s. The cool hands held his face, thumb caressing cheekbones. He looked into Damen’s face the same way he had admired the rings together. Gently he pressed a kiss to Damen’s forehead. The tenderness and adoration of it made Damen’s heart ache.

“I love you,” Laurent said it in his language before he kissed him.

Neither wanted to sleep when they’re time together was so brief, but it went by too quickly anyway and Laurent left the next evening.

—

Damen was sure he remembered there being a newspaper stand near the Eiffel Tower. When he found it, he bought the day's paper and flipped to the story he wanted. A few weeks ago it had been on the front page around the continent. Plane crash over the Meditteranean. Twenty-one dead, thirty-four survivors, six missing. Pictures of the six had made it into the media. After a time, three had been found alive, one dead, with two still missing. The images were still in circulation and Damen found them on page seven. He put a finger over the blond head printed in black and white. 

The face next to Laurent’s was also recognizable. It had been over five years now but Damen knew the flat-nose face of Govart, one of the uncle’s henchmen. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Two months ago, 4am, and wrapped in Damen’s arms Laurent had told him it was almost over, that he was close to finding his vengeance.

When the news first came out and Damen had seen the headline and photo of Laurent on the front page he had quit his job. Laurent was alive. Damen was certain and he would find him.