SO TELL ME, WHY YOU HAVE TO GO AND MAKE THINGS SO COMPLICATED?

"For fuck's sake!" Susan said, and answered her cell. "You've got two minutes, I'm walking down Broadway right now. Mary's meeting her handler in fifteen."

"I'm afraid that won't be necessary, Cooper. Thirty minutes ago, Mary Vutina posted, quote, el-oh-el I'm a Russian spy, end quote, on her Instagram page. We're pulling you out of the field. I'll see you back at Langley in the morning." Click.

Susan stared at her phone like it might magically make the Director start yelling at her again. "Did that seriously just happen?" she asked the vomit stain in front of the corner store.

The vomit stain didn't confirm or deny, so Susan pulled up Vutina's Instagram. There she was, arm around some wrinkled Russian twice her age, and the caption...

Yep. Yep, it really just happened.

"Motherfucker!"

"Now, now, don't get excited. I am technically still your eyes and ears, and I've booked you a train back. You're due at Union Depot in twenty minutes."

"You're a sociopath," Susan told Nancy. "Like, actually and seriously, this whole department is full of crazy people. A train? I don't even get a plane?"

Her earpiece crackled with Nancy's snort. "It's cheaper. Department rules and you know it, Jane Bond. Now get to the station."

"Instagram. Motherfucker."

-

So it wasn't the best start to a week.

She had to go through an inquiry, too, because the agency wasn't so sure she hadn't somehow tipped Vutina into blowing her own cover. "They do realize if I could do that, I'd be like, a mega spy? Super spy? You could shut down the agency if I was that good."

"Just fill out the report, Cooper," the Director'd said.

By Wednesday, Susan was seriously considering her backup career plan (translator who moonlighted as a money launderer). So of course she got called into a meeting - a need-to-know, highly confidential meeting. It was the kind of thing that would've thrilled her back in the day, but now it just felt like even more bullshit.

"You know," Nancy said when Susan told her as much, "you really should get a cat. You're downright crabby lately. Animal companionship is a wonderful antidote to depression."

"You can't have a cat," the Director said. "People! Close the door. It's need to know, come on."

"Ma'am, I can get a cat if I want. I mean, the cat's not going to spy on me."

"Its collar might!" Nancy said. "Internet of things and whatnot."

"You can't have a cat unless you turn down the subject of this meeting: a career-defining, extremely delicate, extremely irregular mission."

Then she did that thing she was so good at, the thing Susan was always trying to replicate but never quite could. She raised her eyebrows and pinned Susan with a level, 'don't-fuck-with-me' look, and in the space of just a few seconds, Susan was ready to swear fealty to her and kill a man to protect her.

Seriously. Why couldn't she do a look like that? It was badass. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. Am I opening a dog shelter in my house?"

"Could be a brothel, to catch human traffickers. Oh my God. I saw a Jason Statham movie just like that last week."

"Thank you for your input, Agent Hart," the Director said, "but this assignment is a little...different." She brought up her Powerpoint.

And for a second Susan thought she'd been poisoned and was hallucinating, or she had a rare blood cancer and was hallucinating. Hallucinating was definitely part of it, because the first slide in the deck was just a huge photo of Rayna Boyanov, beehive as high as ever, wearing a lime green and pink bodysuit.

"This isn't happening."

"Unfortunately for all of us, the Bureau ratfucked us." The Director flipped to another slide. Susan skimmed the conditional release form. "Ah, Christ, they made her a sweetheart deal? Why?"

"Like I said: ratfucked. Probably for ongoing intel, what do I know? I'm only the Deputy Director of the CIA. But anyway, despite the fact that the deal was the Bureau's, the responsibility's ours."

And then it sank in. Right there, on the next slide, was Rayna's medical history: she was allergic to cats. "No. Wait, hang on, I meant to say absolutely not, because that's crazy."

"You can turn it down, technically, but the bureaucratic bullshit means I won't be able to protect you from the fallout. They'll decide you're noncompliant."

"I'm the most compliant person in the world!"

"Oh, no. I'm sorry, but it is my job to ensure you don't lie under oath."

"She's not under oath, Hart."

"All the same." Nancy folded her hands primly. "You're not, let us say, particularly compliant."

"It's totally illegal to make me live with a criminal!"

"Very true. That's why we're not making you."

"Coercion!"

"Welcome to government work, Coop."

"I..." For some reason, the PowerPoint deck went back to Rayna's face. It was a different picture this time, but she looked the same: beautiful, evil, and slutty. "I seriously do not want to do this."

"If you do, you'll get a promotion. Hell, you'll jump a couple salary bands. But you're free to refuse. Legally speaking."

"The agency's going to pay for my grocery bill. And rent for the room. And I want hazard pay!"

"Done."

"And an extra weapon, just in case."

"Of course."

"And a Lambo."

The Director gave her a very unamused look. "You're dismissed."

"Oh my God," Nancy said as soon as they left her office. "You have a company-mandated roommate! You're going to kill her! Or fall in very erotic, messy love."

"Gross. Gross. This whole thing is gross." Susan glanced at the clock. Three PM on the dot. "Come on, we're going to the bar."

"Wait, seriously?"

"Rayna Boyanov is my new roomie! Yes, I'm serious!"

"Well, goody. I am your eyes and ears, so I suppose I'm morally obliged to follow you." Excuses handled, Nancy grabbed her coat. "Let's get schwasty."

-

So, between one thing and another, Susan stumbled out into her living room the next morning - a Saturday, not a work day at-fucking-all - to see Rayna sitting on her couch, looking disgusted.

"I'm sorry, but there's been some kind of mistake," Rayna said. "Are you aware you live in a slum?"

Susan looked around at her hardwood floors, hand-knotted rugs, kiln-dried hardwood side tables, and plush heirloom quality couch. "Excuse me?"

"I had to climb stairs to get here. You don't even have a balcony!"

"Well, I'm sorry my condo's not to your majesty's standards. Excuse me." She went to grab her coffee.

Only to find the pot mostly empty, the grounds just barely wet. "Hey! What did you do to my coffee maker?"

"It made the most uncouth noise."

Susan stared at her. At her ridiculously tall hair, her bright orange jeggings, her snobby upturned face, her sparkly jacket, her huge fucking ankle monitor because she was a god damn felon in Susan's house. "What is wrong with you? I mean, I know you have tons of Daddy issues, and I'm sure jail didn't help, but -"

"Prison."

"Excuse me?"

"I was in prison," Rayna said, and sniffed disapprovingly. "It's different. Honestly, what do they teach people at the CIA these days?"

"God, shut up." Terrible comeback accomplished, Susan beat it into the kitchen to get her coffee.

But the coffee didn't really help, and neither did the Advil, and neither did fantasizing about dropping Rayna off the eighth floor. Ultimately, Rayna was still in her living room and Susan was still responsible for - managing her.

"What exactly am I supposed to do with a sociopathic Bulgarian dipshit?" Susan had asked Nancy at the bar.

"Well, handle her, one assumes, while she exploits her many criminal connections. That's usually how these deals go."

"While she lives in my house?"

Nancy had shrugged. "Look, the Director's seen your file from the farm. She knows you've got single-minded focus and a willingness to kill. And you have a track record of having kept Rayna in line, too. I'm not trying to victim-blame, but still: consider that you might have brought this on yourself, just a bit."

So, right. The Director knew exactly what Susan would do, given the incredibly annoying situation she'd stuck her with. Susan was a 'then we'll deal with it' person. She was a 'we're here now' person. She was a 'given that we're stranded and winter's not due to end for 6 months, let's draw straws on who gets eaten first' person.

Not that they'd tested that last one at the farm. But still. Susan knew she was being predictable, and playing right into the agency's hands, as she squared her shoulders and went back into the living room.

"Ground rules," she said, sitting down across from Rayna.

Rayna pulled out a knife.

"Jesus! What the fuck?" Susan grabbed the gun in the vase on the side table. "What is wrong with you?"

Rayna blinked at her. "You said we were negotiating."

"Yeah, about being roommates, not bombing Times Square!"

Rayna shrugged, pursing her lips. She looked glamorous and insouciant. She was showing off, Susan realized. "Same thing."

"It's seriously not."

Rayna lowered her knife; Susan lowered her gun. "Whatever. What rules are you imagining, exactly?"

"Don't turn off my coffee maker. Ever."

Rayna rolled her eyes, but she didn't argue, which Susan was choosing to see as progress.

"Don't pull a knife on me. Don't call my home a slum. Don't touch my stuff. Don't - "

"Breathe?"

"If only." Susan stopped, unable to stop herself from glaring. Rayna was so - so there. Susan had thought they'd had a moment right before Rayna was arrested, but then of course she'd been tried and sent to prison, and Susan hadn't really seen her for most of that. So maybe she'd hallucinated the moment.

Unfortunately, she hadn't hallucinated how...tackily beautiful Rayna was. This would've all been easier to deal with if she was as ugly and boring as most of the criminals Susan went after.

"Look," she tried. "I'm sure you don't want to be here. I don't either."

"Of course I don't," Rayna snapped, looking away.

"But we're stuck with each other, so just...try to be cool, and so will I. Okay?"

Rayna looked back at her, giving her one of those up-and-downs that made Susan feel super judged. "Fine."

"I'm assuming you're supposed to come into work with me tomorrow."

"Well, I'm not going to stay here."

Susan decided to be the bigger person. "Sure. So, until then, feel free to hang out. WiFi password is taped to the router. I've got yoga in the morning and then I'm going to the movies, so..."

"What movie?"

"I'll decide when I get there."

Rayna stared at her like Susan imagined she'd look at a cockroach. "The habits of the working class are fascinating," she said finally.

Susan almost snapped at her, until her observational skills caught up. Unbelievably, she was pretty sure this was Rayna trying to be nice. "Sure. See you later."

"Whatever," Rayna said, and grabbed Bridges of 20th Century California from the coffee table.

Susan didn't even get a chance to look at what was showing before Nancy pounced. "Well?"

"What?"

"You're lucky I didn't make you wear your earpiece. Rayna. How is she?"

"Wait, you knew she'd be at my house? Nancy, what the fuck."

"You did too! It was the last thing the Director said. Oh, I suppose you were already in a rage blackout. Well, for that you have no one to blame but yourself."

"Come on. This whole situation is ridiculous."

"And yet, I received an email today detailing the various ways in which Rayna is expected to help us with the Panama Papers investigation, so you really can't deny it's a good idea."

"I can and I will. The agency could pay for a hotel."

"In this economy? Psh. Oooh, let's see the new Lara Croft."

Susan, hoping to distract herself from endless Rayna gossip, bought her ticket.

And in a sense it worked; Nancy focused on Lara and didn't ask Susan dumb questions about Rayna for the full two hours. But every time Lara said something sassy to one of the many men in the movie, Susan found herself thinking about Rayna. It was so, so stupid.

It got even stupider the next day. Everyone stared when Susan took Rayna into work, obviously. "Is it take-my-sociopath-to-work day?" Lorena from Accounting said as Susan got her coffee.

Susan couldn't even snap back, because honestly: fair enough. Rayna was standing there in high heels and an all-black bodysuit like some kind of demented sex bodyguard.

"It's a work thing, you slag," Rayna snapped.

"Rayna! Jesus!"

"No, it's fine," Lorena said. "I mean, I never murdered anyone. So."

Which was a true statement and absolutely nothing Susan should respond to. Except - "She's here because the US government thinks she's useful. So I guess you two have at least one thing in common."

"Run along, now," Rayna added when Lorena's mouth dropped open in outrage.

"Oh, God," Susan muttered to herself. "Come on." She jerked her head at Rayna, and they hustled back to her desk together.

It was kind of satisfying, having Rayna follow her around and knowing she couldn't insult Susan's outfit or treat her like a maid. Not that Susan was going to let on she felt that way, obviously. It wasn't like it was actually a good thing, after all. It was a borderline demotion, going from Russian spy stuff to some Bulgarian has-been. Though Rayna was less annoying than Vutina, but that was just like saying being beheaded hurt less than being skinned alive.

Susan was so lost in thought that she almost missed the Outlook notification for her meeting with the Director. She rubbed her hands together, anticipation perking her up a little. "Okay! Who's ready to figure out why I'm being hazed by the deputy director of the CIA?"

"Ugh," said Rayna, but she grabbed a pad of CIA-branded paper to take notes.

-

"I know what this is about," Rayna said as soon as the Director shut the meeting room door.

Susan blinked. "Wait. Excuse me?"

"I wouldn't piss her off, if I were you," the Director told Rayna, jerking her head in Susan's direction. "You're living with her, and she's a berserker."

Rayna sniffed. "I'm aware. All the same: you know as well as I do that my lawyer is the one who got me here. You wouldn't free a high value political prisoner on the hunch that she had good information to volunteer."

"You're not free, you're an imprisoned consultant. And you're medium value at best. No offense," the Director inexplicably added, looking at Susan.

"None taken. Not about that, anyway. Why wasn't I briefed on Rayna's value to the agency?"

"You were, just last Friday."

"No, I mean - actually briefed. She knows specific stuff and that's why she's living with me. I think I deserve to know if someone's going to be in my home. That's going a little beyond work/life balance even for the CIA."

"No such thing," the Director said. "But I take your point. Rayna, why don't you explain?"

Rayna rolled her eyes. "Some horrid friend of my father's brewed vast vats of smallpox, and now he wants to sell it to all sorts of people, including the Russians. Can you imagine?"

"I, well, I'm a CIA agent, so I can, actually," Susan said. But she was reeling. "Seriously?" she added, looking over at the Director.

"Unfortunately, she's not lying," the Director said. "We exchanged information and aid on this case for her house arrest."

"Yeah, in my house."

"Them's the breaks," the Director said. "Anyway, you won't be there long. Your name is Elayne Ilinovich, you're a second-generation immigrant, and you've got vials upon vials of smallpox to buy when the auction starts in Antwerp in a week or so."

"Ugh, such a vulgar name," Rayna said, at the same time Susan said, "She's living with me for a week?"

-

After the briefing, which at least didn't end with anyone murdered or quitting their job a la Rick Ford, Susan wound up hanging out with Nancy as Rayna gave the CIA's counter-espionage experts more information on the Bulgarian mobs' operating habits. "I mean, on the bright side," Nancy said, "this is a real headline of a case. No chasing around some Insta-twat for you anymore."

"We're good at our jobs," Susan said. "Both of us! As a team! I don't need some...insane Bulgarian jerk who dresses like an advertisement for Twee-DSM magazine to hang around being a pain in my ass."

"Twee-DSM, very good, you think of that yourself?" Nancy said. "Anyway, it's only a week. It's not a huge deal. I figure I could live with anyone for a week, much less someone so easy on the eyes."

"Easy on the eyes? Her?" Susan looked over to the glass-walled office, behind which Rayne was gesticulating at - was that Bob? Poor Bob. "You've gotta be kidding."

"Oh, come on, Susan, don't play dense."

"She's okay looking at best."

Nancy cocked an eyebrow.

"Or maybe she's hot, but you get points taken off for personality!"

"Says the woman who slept with Rick Ford."

"Just twice!"

"Christmas party."

"That doesn't count, he couldn't finish."

"If you could, it still counts." Nancy shook her head. "Honestly, Susan, if I didn't know any better I'd call you a prude."

"What am I, then?"

Nancy typed the password into her computer with a flourish, shot Susan a look heavy with meaning, and said, "Scared."

"You take that back, I am not."

"Hm, agree to disagree. Ooh, look at this. I suppose all those old-timey generals just had smallpox, huh?" She showed Susan her screen, on which sat a massive smallpox boil.

"Ugh, God. Gross."

"Look on the bright side, you're saving the world. And keeping anyone else from having to deal with, you know, all that." Nancy gestured to the office, where Rayna was either slapping Bob, or demonstrating what it would be like if she slapped Bob. Hard to tell from half a floor away.

Susan had to admit it: Nancy had a point.

-

"Nancy is a filthy rotten dirty fucking liar," Susan hissed three days later, watching Rayna lean over the cafe table and flirt with Ford, douche-about-town and professional case-interferer.

"Hey! I'm on the comm, and I am not."

"We've been in Prague for two days, and this asshole -"

"He's actually there officially. He's your backup."

"Excuse me, my what?"

"Backup. Watches your back? Sleeps with one eye open, all that?"

"I don't need backup to exchange information with some Bulgarian sleezebags."

"And see, that right there is proof that you do, because you're not exchanging information. Rayna is exchanging information. You're on stakeout duty."

"There won't be anything to stake out if he keeps talking to her!"

There was a long silence on the other end of the comm. Susan scowled and tapped it. "Nancy? Nancy! This had better not be what I'm supposed to deal with!"

"Sorry, had someone on the other line. No, it'll be fine, I promise. He was just laying out the parameters of the mission with her, anyway."

Susan watched Ford nod at Rayna and stand up to leave, and reached a horrible conclusion. "You're cheating on me."

"I have dual assignments, which is very typical for those of us who aren't backing up Bradley "Big Dick" Fine, thanks ever so much," Nancy said primly. "And I told him to use a lighter touch, and he's agreed. Really you should be thanking me."

"I gotta go," Susan said, and turned her comm off before Nancy could protest.

"Ah. Susan. I thought the purpose of this op was for Viktor to not realize the CIA was involved."

"So you were just, what, flirting with Ford for shits and giggles?"

"He was actually giving me advice on where to find your g-spot."

For a second Susan couldn't speak and also experienced an out-of-body rage moment, the likes of which she hadn't had since training back at the farm. "He did not."

"Not in so many words, anyway. I see I was right, though: you did sleep with him." Rayna pursed her lips, managing to look both disgusted and - intrigued. "What are American agencies coming to, really?"

"Enough with the bullshit, okay," Susan gritted out. "We're here to get the name of Viktor's boss and that's it."

"I just think it's funny how you didn't even try to seduce me, but hopped in bed with Ford the moment he indicated -"

"Maybe I'm straight, huh, did that ever occur to you?"

"You were on the lam from your agency and you still bought sensible shoes to go with your hideous, gaudy outfits. Do try not to be ridiculous, Susan."

Susan stared at her, trying to summon words but totally incapable of doing so. She didn't want Rayna to be right, except that she was - or, okay, she was wrong about basically everything except for how Susan wasn't straight. That was very true.

Distractingly true, currently, even though Rayna was wearing a bright orange tube top and purple leather pants covered in lacy straps, and looked more like the cheapest domme out of Vegas than the daughter of a major crime boss.

Who could've been a crime boss in her own right, if she hadn't been so careless, and why was that thought appealing? "Get it together," Susan muttered at herself.

"Excuse me?"

"Get it together." They both needed to hear it. "And stop being such a dick. I'm going back to position and if the next person I see you talk to isn't Viktor, I swear to God, Rayna, I'll drag you back to high security prison myself."

"It's not my fault people talk to me. Google feminism." Rayna cut her eyes away, indicating with disgusting ease that Susan was dismissed.

Within the hour, Viktor came and left again. Nancy, back on the comms at that point, said, "Oh, bad news you two. It looks like his boss is going to be meeting with a potential buyer of the virus tonight, at the Bar de Sah. We'll have to do some surveillance and hope for the best, I'd think."

Susan, on her park bench a hundred feet from Rayna, looked up from her book to meet Rayna's eyes. A hundred feet might as well have been two feet, because she knew exactly what Rayna was thinking just then.

"Nah," she told Nancy. "We're going to do a retrieval op."

"Susan, no!"

"If I catch his boss, will he lead me to the manufacturer of this virus?"

"Almost certainly, in the 1% of scenarios where you don't get made and die!"

"Honestly, Nancy, no one says 'get made'," Rayna said. It was her first commentary of the day, which Susan was only now realizing was really unusual. "We'll be fine. This sort of thing is what Susan has me for now. Come along." That last was directed as Susan, who - to her horror - actually followed the instruction.

"I hope you realize how pathetic this is," Nancy said on the Rayna-less comm link. "Like, Thelma and Louise if one of them was absolutely whipped, and keep in mind they do in fact die in the end!"

"Look, it's worth a try," Susan said.

"Is that CIA code for 'I love danger and also I'm the world's first victim of vaginal hypnosis'? Should I be updating my phrasebook?"

"Hey, I gotta go, Rayna found the Gucci store."

"Susan! Don't mute this line, damn you!"

Susan muted the line.

-

"I can't believe Gucci sells lime green boots."

"It's called fashion, Coop."

"Don't call me that."

Rayna turned back around in the booth, met Susan's eyes, and smiled. "It's called fashion, Susan."

Damn her and damn the shiver that went down Susan's spine at her voice! This whole thing was so stupid. Susan took another drink of her wine and tried to concentrate on the douchebag in the corner. Viktor Shronev. He would've been a grade-A scumbag even without the smallpox thing, since he was a well-known trafficker and mob boss, but he was about to graduate to full-on biological terrorist. The thought chilled Susan more with every minute that ticked by.

"There we go," Rayna said quietly. Her foot touched Susan's calf, the signal they'd agreed on. Which, in retrospect, was very stupid. Susan took another drink of wine and watched as the man Rayna'd signaled to her to watch sat down across from Viktor.

Clean-shaven. White. And American, based on the tie pin, or really into American stereotypes. She took a few discreet pictures by fiddling with her earring, then a few more for good measure as the men swapped cell phones and exchanged information.

"It's a display of trust," Rayna murmured. "It means Viktor's not worried about this fellow bugging his phone."

"And here I thought they were just reenacting their childhood sleepovers."

"I don't understand why he'd be thinking about selling the virus to Jethro."

"Excuse me?" Susan couldn't help but stare at Rayna, her jaw mouth falling open. "You know this guy?"

"He hit on me once at Martha's Vineyard."

"Oh my God! In front of her chow-chows?"

Rayna wrinkled her nose like Susan had reached behind herself, grabbed a turd, and waved it around. "What? Whose chow-chows?"

"Martha's. I follow her on Instagram."

"You're a very strange person," Rayna said. "Anyway, he's an absolutely disgusting person, but he's not actually so stupid he'd think releasing smallpox is a good idea."

"You think you know a guy. Hey, I should go talk to him."

"Your boss said this mission was observation only."

"Yeah, I'm gonna observe. Only, you know, closer."

Rayna eyed Susan's empty glass. "How drunk are you, exactly?"

Susan, who'd gotten briefly distracted by Rayna's tacky cleavage, dragged her eyes up and said, "Not very." She stood up to go over to Jethro and give him a little tickle. A spy tickle.

"For fuck's sake," Rayna muttered behind her, and grabbed Susan with her bony hands.

The kiss was briefly the least sexy thing Susan had ever endured, because Rayna was aggressive and Susan was tipsy and also frozen due to the whole Bulgarian jerkwad trying to make out with her thing. But then something changed, maybe horniness, maybe fate. Susan moved and got a hand in Rayna's hair, twisting just hard enough to confirm it wasn't a wig (or that it was a really good one), and Rayna made a tiny noise into Susan's mouth like -

Like she wanted this. Like she might die if she didn't get it.

"Fuck," Susan said, and this time it wasn't the booze that made her grab Rayna and kiss her again.

Or maybe it was. Because if the booze wasn't a factor, she'd probably be aware of what a bad idea all this was. They had pictures of Viktor and Jethro, so technically the job was done, but Susan had had plans. Useful, smallpox-epidemic-stopping plans. And, okay, the Director had said there was no way the virus would be unleashed yet. But -

Butt. As in: Rayna's hand, on.

"Let's get out of here," Rayna breathed into her ear, and even though it was the absolute worst, most clichéd thing to say, Susan could only agree.

They paid the bill and skedaddled, grabbing a cab back to their hotel. Things got blurry from both lust and arousal: the elevator, Rayna's hand on her boob, her key card not working the first two times because Rayna kept distracting her with tiny little bites, and then finally they were in the room, Rayna pushing her against the wall, pressing a leg against her -

"Oh, for fuck's sake. I go to grab Applebee's like a good little office drone and this is what I come back to?"

"Motherfucker," Rayna snarled, and threw her comm link across the room.

"I'm just saying," Nancy said, slurping from what Susan could easily identify as an extra-large to-go Applebee's cup. "It's a simple mission! Tell me you got - okay, yes, those are very nice shots of our criminals. But you'll have to engage in ethically dubious departmental fraternization in your own time, Susan."

"It's not ethically dubious!"

"I'm technically your captive," Rayna said.

"Bull-fucking-shit."

Rayna, her hair somehow even more poofy post-makeout, retrieved her earpiece. "Nancy. Good of you to join us again. The CIA's finest are as disappointing as ever."

"Slow your roll, slutty Robert Hanssen, you're also in dereliction of your duties currently."

"Ugh, whatever," Rayna said. "Nancy, we'll talk to you tomorrow."

"What's to talk about? Your mission's over. I've got you on an Air France flight leaving in two hours, so you'd better get your arses to the airport."

Susan looked at Rayna. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was still breathing hard. Susan felt like she might explode from sheer sexual frustration, and she probably looked twice and rumpled and half as hot. Motherfucker, she was never going to forgive Nancy.

"Fuck you," Rayna snapped, and turned her communicator off.

"She's so rude. I am really judging your taste right now, just FYI," Nancy told Susan. "You've a car out front, get a move on."

Susan, for lack of better options, did what she said.

-

So.

So.

The problem was - okay, there were several problems. The most obvious problem was that Rayna was an amoral criminal. The second problem was that she was in the spare bedroom that shared a wall with Susan's room, which was suddenly a problem. It never had been before.

The third problem was that Susan really, extremely, desperately, slightly insanely wanted to kiss Rayna again.

Sure, she wanted to fuck her, too. Rayna was hot, so that was extremely normal. But the kissing was alarming. The kissing implied feelings.

"I don't think that's true at all," Nancy said when Susan attempted to explain it over cocktails at the McDonald's that also served booze. Virginia, weird choice for a pilot restaurant.

"But -"

"Like, I kissed my high school boyfriend a ton, and all that means is I knew he couldn't find my clitoris."

"For me," Susan said. "Kissing usually means feelings for me."

"Oh." Nancy took a long pull of her margarita. "That's a little pathetic, you know. Is this because you're so repressed?"

"I'm not repressed!"

"Tell that to someone who hasn't heard you crying on Halloween over your inability to find someone to do a Freddie Krueger couple's costume with."

"Well, it's not like Rayna would do that!"

"No, but I bet she'd finger you, and that's what your after. Fingering and snuggles."

Susan finished off her drink and motioned for another. "Ugh, when you put it like that it sounds gross."

"That's because it is. But don't worry: I am still your friend, and I am going to help you solve this. With alcohol."

Nancy really was such a good friend. Susan came home so drunk that Rayna took one look at her and said, "If you drown in your own vomit, I'm not going to help you."

"If I drown, I'll too be dead to care," Susan said, and fell over.

And then Rayna did help her. Or Susan thought she did. There was a lot of cursing and manhandling, and Susan wound up in bed, and she remembered Rayna saying, "My God, the way you live is just tragic." But that was it. Well, Susan had thought about how pretty Rayna was, looking down at her with slutty disdain, but she didn't say that out loud because they didn't let you out of the farm if you didn't learn how to shut the fuck up when you were poisoned. And alcohol was in fact poison, which Susan remembered the next morning as she puked up all sixteen tiny fried shrimp things.

"This is genuinely pathetic," Rayna said when Susan finally emerged from her bedroom, freshly showered but still feeling like absolute ass.

"Ugh, stop talking."

Rayna threw a Thermos at her. "Ow! Hey!" But when Susan opened it, the delicious, life-saving scent of badly made coffee wafted out. "God, you're such a bitch," Susan said, and chugged it.

"It may have escaped your attention, given the CIA's predilection for exploiting those under their power, but sarcasm is one of the few tools at my disposal right now."

"Hah!" Susan drank some more coffee. Every time she moved her head throbbed, God, Nancy was the worst influence.

"Excuse me?"

Rayna's frosty tones yoinked her back to the present even more effectively than the coffee. "Oh, come on. I have so many knives. You could murder me so easily. And blunt instruments! I have a fire poker, for fuck's sake."

"And what do you think would happen if I killed you? The CIA would show up at your door and shoot me extremely dead before I could so much as get a bone saw and a tarp to do the cleanup. Don't be ridiculous."

"Wait, do you think they sell bone saws at Home Depot or -"

"They do," Rayna said icily. "Really, Susan. Your disgusting countrymen hunt, after all."

"This - got off topic. My point is, you're not defenseless and the victim act sucks." Susan stabbed a finger at Rayna. "And I'm super hungover, so shut up while I find the Advil."

Susan told her heart not to flutter when Rayna, who'd already gone through all of her drawers at least twice, pulled the bottle out of her coat and threw it at Susan's head.

-

The information they got was good. Jethro was in fact American, but he was part of a prepper cell: based in New Mexico, loved MREs and conspiracy theories. Only he didn't believe the conspiracy theories, apparently. He knew there was no disaster coming, knew the whole thing was just overdramatic bullshit, and he'd decided to fix that little PR problem the old-fashioned way: DIY. To prove the legitimacy of his cult (and YouTube channel, and supplement business), Jethro was going to release smallpox into the wild.

"Son of a bitch," Susan said as they went over his dossier.

"Honestly, I don't get the point of all this," Rayna said. "He's making, what, a few million annually? You can hit better numbers by stealing Bitcoin, never mind things that actually exist."

"Oh, yeah, I'm also pissed at the murdering disease-monger maniac because he's bad at crimes."

"I never said bad. A corner store robbery is bad. This is just...disappointing."

She pursed her lips when she said it, that annoyingly Rayna-typical 'I'm disappointed in you, but in a sexy way' moue. It made Susan want to grab Rayna and kiss her, and the worst part was, she was used to it now. She couldn't even be that mad at her libido. It was what it was, and "it" was her entire vaginal region feeling like molten lava every time Rayna sneered at her.

Jesus Christ.

"Cooper! Get in here!"

Oh, thank God. The Director's shout sounded pissed, which meant Susan could leave and she might be gone for awhile. "Gotta go, have fun with your crime criticism," Susan said.

"What's all that about?"

"Dunno."

"Now, Cooper!"

"Maybe I'm going to be fired," Susan said, finding the thought more soothing than she should've. Rayna just scowled. Well, fair enough. She had no idea who'd be Rayna's handler if she herself couldn't do it. "Sit tight," she said, and dodged the pencil Rayna threw at her head in response.

"How much do you know about hit men?" the Director said by way of greeting.

"More of a threat in movies than in reality, generally either local dumb muscle or in the employ of a target we care more about. Why?"

"Well, Rayna's trying to hire one."

A tiny hint of the berserker energy spun in Susan's chest. "Excuse me, what?"

"Here's the file." The Director plopped an inch-thick file in front of Susan. "Most of that's logs of your broadband - and, by the way, you want Kindle for the kind of fiction you're looking for."

"Excuse me!"

"The relevant bits are this: Rayna's third cousin twice removed, Irv, lives in Boston. She was trying to get him to give her some names of East Coast hit men."

"For what? She's our prisoner!"

"To kill you."

Susan laughed before she had a chance to process that. And then she laughed some more. "No, but really."

"No, I'm serious. Quote, I'm going to kill her or fuck her, and I like being syphilis free, end quote."

"Jesus."

"It's pretty bad." The Director leaned back in her chair and fixed Susan with a stern look. "Which leads me to my second question: what the fuck are you doing, Cooper?"

"I'm not doing anything!" That was part of the problem!

"Clearly you've done something. Unless you're telling me Rayna made up the torrid near-sexual encounter she told her skeezy cousin about?"

"Auuuugh, motherfucker," Susan said, and buried her face in her hands.

"I hope you don't need me to tell you this is pretty clearly misconduct," said the Director, who'd apparently never been so embarrassed she thought she might die and thus had no idea how close to the brink Susan was.

"I - geez. Okay, yes, I know, but it wasn't - like that."

"Please. I don't know what it was like and I don't care; what I care about is the record of your behavior and the fact that its - recipient - is now trying to hire someone to kill you. Get your shit together, Cooper. You're both high value assets and I don't want you fucking that up with a misconduct charge."

Susan winced. "I know! But she's the one making my life miserable, and -"

"But nothing. I told you, I don't care how it happened, or why. I care that you don't fuck up again."

"Ma'am, isn't it a rearresting offense to hire someone for -"

The Director slammed a hand on her desk. "Think of legal discovery for that charge, for fuck's sake. Just deal with your shit, Susan!"

She was right. Susan hated it, but there it was. "I - okay. Yes. Of course, ma'am. Excuse me."

"What was that all about?" Rayna said when Susan got back from her panic attack bathroom break.

"Nothing," Susan snapped.

Rayna arched a single brow. "Come now. Why don't you tell me."

She had no right sounding so flirty when, a, she wasn't flirting at all, and b, she'd tried to hire a fucking hitman to take Susan out! The more Susan thought about it, the more anger roiled in the pit of her stomach. "Hey! You've got a lot of nerve, you murderous -"

"Cooper! Boyanov! My office!"

Susan groaned. The Director couldn't possibly be serious.

She was, of course.

"There's a sale happening tomorrow in Antwerp. You two are going to stop it. Boyanov, you're the patsy; Susan, you're the muscle."

Rayna scoffed. "If you want to get rid of me, you can just have me killed."

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you," Susan muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Come on, you can't think I wouldn't tell her," the Director said to Rayna.

"I believed in you when you protested over your integrity!"

"Says the criminal who tried to kill me," Susan snapped.

"That has nothing to do with -"

"Any of this? Agreed." The Director slapped her desk again.

"Doesn't your hand hurt from that?" Susan blurted out.

Rayna, to her shock, bit back a laugh. The Director just said, "Antwerp. Flight. Go."

They retrieved their disguises - Susan, at least, was allowed to wear a suit this time, not 100 tea cozies sewn into a vest - and their spy tools. Well, Susan's spy tools. Rayna only got a panic button and a stern admonition to take care of herself. "Most of the agents here aren't much to look at," Patrick told her. "If you could preserve your beauty, if nothing else, we'd appreciate it."

"That's disgusting," Rayna sniffed, but she took the panic button and didn't try to slap Patrick. So maybe she liked it. Who knew. Not Susan, that was for sure.

"You're sulking," Rayna pointed out in the cab to the airport.

"I'm not sulking. I'm just not engaging with the person who tried to kill me."

"Trying to have someone killed is completely different from trying to kill them."

"Sure, I guess it's more premeditated."

"And I wasn't - ugh. Why do I even bother? Indulge in your vulgar fantasies at will, I suppose it doesn't matter."

Susan honestly couldn't think of a response. It was so overdramatic, so deliberately dickish. It was ridiculous, and the only reason it was Susan's problem was because the Director had a sick sense of humor and the CIA didn't fund their department well enough to hire criminal babysitters.

It had nothing to do with feelings, sexual or otherwise. It was exclusively a dumb accident of circumstance, and Susan didn't give a shit. She didn't.

"Doesn't it matter?" she found herself saying, very stupidly.

"No."

A single icy syllable. Well, fine then. At least Susan knew where they stood.

-

"You can't possibly bid for a suitcase full of smallpox wearing that."

Rayna looked down at her glitter halter top and orange-and-blue leopard print leggings. "Why not?"

"You look like a slutty circus worker."

"Your obsession with my sex life is pathetic," Rayna said.

"Well, so's your obsession with spandex, so."

"Like you're any better? You look like Vin Diesel between movies, when he's all bloated and sad."

"Hey! I like this suit!" And Vin Diesel could kick ass no matter how jacked he was, which Rayna would know if she hadn't traded pop culture for endless lessons in Bulgarian organized crime.

"You look like you're about to sell me shitty car insurance, or perhaps do my taxes incredibly poorly."

Susan put a hand on her gun. "What I'm going to do is straight up pop a cap in your ass if you don't get moving."

"So I suppose I'll be allowed to leave the hotel wearing that after all?"

"Fuck off, asshole," Susan said, and strapped another gun to her leg.

"You know, this is all very sexually charged, and not in a particularly nice way," Nancy said.

"Well, no one here is very nice, so that makes sense."

"I can be nice," Rayna said archly.

"Ew," Nancy said.

And of course, Susan had already put in her camera-contacts, which meant Nancy got a full view of the incredibly lascivious once-over Rayna gave Susan, just to taunt her.

"This is so intense," Nancy said. "Are you going to sleep with her after you've foiled the apocalypse?"

"Nancy!"

Rayna rolled her eyes. "Get off your juvenile little private channel, Nancy. We have a job to do."

"She is very sexy. I will admit. And I know you love a masterful air, remember that time we went to the circus and that clown wouldn't let you leave before he painted your nose?"

"I shouldn't need to tell you there was nothing sexual about that," Susan muttered.

"I can hear you," Rayna said. "I'm literally standing right here."

God damn it. "Both of you shut the hell up," Susan said, and grabbed the keys.

She was the driver this time. She'd like to think it was an expression of the Director's trust, proof of how much she'd grown, but of course the truth wasn't that exciting. It was just that Rayna would have her bodyguard drive; she didn't trust much of anyone, especially not since she'd escaped federal prison.

Or so the story went. She hadn't escaped, and she definitely didn't trust Susan, so there were a lot of lies to keep track of.

"I hope you've got heels stashed away in the trunk for the exchange. My people know I won't tolerate an ugly duckling as my right hand man."

"Oh, do you make your men wear heels?"

"Shut up. You know what I mean."

Susan pulled into park outside the old glassworks factory the sale was taking place in. "I have boots, because we might need to run. If I'm your bodyguard, you're supposed to be doing what I say. Not the other way around."

Rayna sulked. No; Rayna pouted, crossing her arms and looking out the window. "Utterly ridiculous," Nancy said in Susan's ear.

"I know my father was strict," Rayna said, "and a bit difficult to get along with, but you are really a hundred times worse than he ever was. I don't know how I thought he put up with you."

For one very weird second, Susan thought this was some kind of messed-up roleplay thing. Then she realized: Rayna was just driving home that she knew Susan had always lied to her. It was some dumb, messed-up power play thing.

Fine. Two could play that game. She stepped on the gas and didn't reply, leaving Rayna to marinate in her attitude.

-

Unfortunately, when Rayna was cooly speaking to multiple would-be bio-terrorists, informing them that she could outbid them and they wouldn't make it out of the city unscathed -

Unfortunately, when she tossed her bouffant and sneered, "Don't give me that shit, Jethro. You think I don't know how pathetic your little underfunded lunatic fringe operation is?" and motioned to Susan to grab him -

Unfortunately, when she spat on Jethro as Susan threw him to the floor, reaching around to grab Susan's gun, cock it, and press it against Jethro's forehead -

Unfortunately. "Holy fuck, she's so hot," Nancy said.

"I can hear you," Rayna snapped.

Jethro looked around frantically. "Hear who? What? Aw man, you Euros are fuckin' crazy!"

"I'll show you crazy, buddy," Susan said grimly.

"Oh, shit, that was the dual band, wasn't it? Well, it's true, anyway. I'm sure you're aware."

Rayna rolled her eyes. "Of course I am."

"So, anyway," Jethro said, and tried to roll away.

Rayna sighed and shot at his crotch.

Blood spurted, men screamed, Susan kicked three would-be terrorists' asses. And the best part was, the CIA would totally come through unscathed. Rayna was, after all, a criminal who wasn't even out on good behavior. Who could tell what crazy shit she'd do? Susan could, obviously, but no one processing the paperwork needed to know that.

"Honestly, you really pulled that off," Nancy said when they got back to the office.

Susan was jet-lagged and had forgotten to put on deodorant, but she was still relieved to say hi to Nancy and ditch Rayna, who'd been wild-eyed and prickly for days now. Shooting a guy had apparently barely taken the edge off.

Only, of course, Rayna hung around like a bad penny. "Nancy. Thank you for shepherding us through that boring assignment."

"Isn't that assignment the only reason you're out of prison?" Nancy opened her desk drawer and tossed Susan her mini Speed Stick.

Rayna watched Susan apply deodorant with the abstract disgust that Susan had, depressingly, gotten used to. "I'm told I'll be quite useful, not just for one operation. They wouldn't have freed me otherwise."

"And we're all just so glad to have you here," Susan said acridly.

"Quite. I'm off, though. I've leave to return home." Rayna glanced at Susan and rolled her eyes. "Or to your home, anyway."

"Bye," Susan said to her rapidly retreating, stiffly held back. Jesus. What was her fucking problem?

"You're doing it again," Nancy said in a dark voice.

"What, watching her ass?"

"No, that's normal. Repressing."

"I'm not - Nancy. Come on."

"I'm just saying! I was honestly worried you'd wind up in the Antwerp clink because you were caught fighting in the street. Or fucking, you know, either. Maybe both?"

"It's nothing like that."

"Isn't it?"

Susan refused to answer. Nancy didn't need to know her stupid closely-held feelings.

Except of course Nancy was her best friend. So Nancy already knew. "Remember when you thought Bradley Fine was your heart's desire?"

"He's a good guy."

"He's also inconsiderate and he didn't know you at all, so personally I thought it was good that you never got the guts to speak up. But this is different."

"I know. Rayna's not just inconsiderate. She's a stone-cold sociopath."

"What? Oh, I suppose. I just meant that I think she'd actually be good for you."

Susan's thoughts screeched to a halt. "Excuse me?"

"Well, she's hot, and not just because she's got hair. And she's smart. And honestly Susan, you have also killed people. Remember that man in Paris?"

She hated that Nancy kind of had a point. "I'm not a sociopath! Or a criminal!"

Nancy waved a hand. "Who can say what's criminal, really?"

"US courts! Bulgarian courts! International -"

"Susan, you really like her."

Susan shut her mouth so hard that her teeth clicked.

"It's fairly obvious, and frankly I'm a little tired of overhearing awkward romantic conversations that aren't even spicy enough to make it to late-night TV. Just talk to her, would you?"

And with that, Susan found herself dismissed.

She spent the rest of the day in a weird lust-and-feelings blur. When she got home, Rayna was nowhere to be found. She sighed into her empty kitchen and went to get some Chardonnay from the fridge.

"You Americans have ridiculous appliances," Rick Ford said from his spot folded around three of her fridge shelves.

"Holy shit!" She managed not to slam his arm in the door, but only barely. "Jesus Christ, man, what is wrong with you?"

"I gave myself brain surgery in the Sahara immediately before acting as a midwife to the world's rarest species of rhino. Haven't been the same since."

"I really don't think that's true."

"Be that as it may, I'm here for a reason." Ford leaned against her counters. It was, Susan noted with aggrieved resignation, a very attractive slouch. "Rayna's at Benny's Cafe. She says if you don't go there, she'll fuck Benny himself, and then escape the United States entirely."

Susan blinked. And then, when Ford didn't say 'so I arrested her', she did it again. "You know declaring intent to violate her terms of parole is itself a parole violation, right? And you've been reinstated as an agent, so it's kind of your job to stop her?"

"As a man of action, I follow my conscience. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"What a funny coincidence, suddenly I have a headache."

"I hope that's not the line you plan to give Rayna."

"Seriously, dude?"

Ford shrugged. "What can I say? I like her. Reminds me of me."

And what did that say about Susan, exactly? Ugh. Nothing good. "I - fine. Benny's." It was just a short drive away. She'd go and tell Rayna to go fuck herself, or whatever.

"We could've been great, love. Catch you around." Ford turned, posed like he was on the edge of a diving board, and jumped out her window.

"We're on the third story," Susan said as she heard him land in a hedge. "You know what, never mind. Time go go break some hearts."

"Atta girl," Ford said from the hedge.

Well, she was a spy. She'd heard worse motivational speeches. The guys at the farm weren't known for their elocution skills, after all.

She kept telling herself that as she drove to Benny's. She'd heard worse. She'd done worse! She'd almost died like fifty times. There was no reason to be afraid of Rayna, and there was doubly no reason to be afraid of what Rayna might do to her feelings.

Still, her heart hammered as she walked down the narrow rows of booths, heading for the corner they'd sat in when she'd dragged Rayna here for breakfast a few days ago. "You remembered," she said, fake casual as she sat down.

"Of course I did." Rayna rolled her eyes. "Unfortunately for both of us, and the world in general, I remember everything about you."

"I. Thanks?"

"Don't be. I ordered you that hideous omelet you like."

"Denver omelets are normal, Rayna."

"Whatever. Look, I think we should just be honest with each other. I have a horrid, wretched - thing. For you."

"Wahoo! Wait, what?"

"Did you just -"

"Sometimes I make panic exclamations!" Susan snapped. "What do you mean, a thing?"

"I mean a thing. You know."

"We're not in middle school and you're not asking if you can borrow my protractor and then trying to stick your finger in my bra, so no, I don't."

"That's disgusting."

"So's how I feel right now." And she wasn't lying. Rayna was looking at her like she was a roach that died behind the hash brown fryer, and Susan still wanted to kiss her. Disgusting barely covered it.

"God, could you be less infuriating just for a second? I'm telling you about my feelings, you absolute - ugh. I look at you and my heart races! I want to fuck you. Worse, I want to toddle off to some disgusting diner just like this with you, get morning coffee and listen to your insipid American opinions. It's disgusting. It's a crisis. I hoped trying to hire my cousin's hit man would land me back in prison, or at least get rid of these feelings, but you cocked even that up. I can't stand you, and I want -"

Susan, who had always been a little too good in a crisis, had heard enough. She leaned across the table, grabbed Rayna's weirdly sticky hair, and kissed her.

"I can't stand you either," she said a moment later, when Rayna wrenched herself away and stared at Susan with wide eyes. "And I can't believe you didn't go back to prison. And you're gonna be wearing that anklet for along time, and this is mega unethical, and your hair is just. Really bad."

"Hi there," their waitress said. "Everything okay?"

"Community theater practice," Rayna said, sticking her nose in the air again.

God, Susan loved that look.

"Right," the woman said. "I got a Denver?"

"Ooh, me!" Susan said. Even weird confessions couldn't kill her enthusiasm for a good breakfast-for-dinner.

"Toast and a fruit cup?"

Rayna silently raised one finger.

"Ignore her, she went to boarding school," Susan told the waitress.

"Uh-huh. You two let me know if you need anything else."

Once she was safely gone, Rayna said, "I want to bend you over your hideous linoleum countertops and finger you until you're begging me to let you get off."

"They're granite."

"Only you could pick granite that looks like linoleum."

"Is that a confession?" Susan said, then almost bit her tongue off.

And Rayna - holy shit! - blushed. Bright pink, all over her face and spreading down to her (bare, because she was wearing a gold lame robe and purple leggings) shoulders.

"If you want it to be," she said.

Susan didn't even have to think about it. "Yeah. I really, really do."

"Eat your disgusting eggs, then, and let's get out of here."

And for the first time in a long, long time, Susan did exactly what she was told.