That fact was strange enough. The fact that he was also dry, and wearing boxers as opposed to his preferred briefs was even stranger. And frankly a bit disconcerting, if he was going to be completely honest with himself. He recognized the feel of the tux—the restrictive, pinching shoes, the cut of the pants, the fit of the jacket around his shoulders, and most of all the fact that the bowtie was partially restricting his airflow—all before he was fully awake. Multiple missions prior to the Bartowski clan had seen to that.
Still, it took him a minute before he opened his eyes, just in case he had somehow fallen asleep on a mission. If a superior was about to chew him out, might as well enjoy the obliviousness for a minute.
There was no superior standing over him and glaring. Instead, he awoke to find himself in an unfamiliar room, stretched out on a recliner.
Wearing a tuxedo.
He lifted his head, noting the room dimensions, egress points, looking for any signs of a hostile force, before he saw her. There was a couch a few feet away from his recliner which looked dusty from years of disuse—and smelled worse—and Carina was asleep on the cushions, curled on her side. Her hair flowed like a soft red waterfall over the side, her face was slack with sleep, and she wore a black dress that was as stunning as it was brief.
As Scott stared at her, perplexed—she had definitely not been wearing that before, he would have remembered—she rolled over onto her back. The dress hem inched up a couple of inches, exposing more thigh.
Scott looked at the ceiling very quickly. He tried to lift his arm to rub his face with his hand, but it was attached to something. Handcuffed, he saw, to some kind of metal briefcase on the floor.
What the hell?
He pushed the footrest down into the seat, pulling the recliner to its upright position and leaned over to pick up the briefcase. He set it in his lap and stared, bewildered, at the post-it note on top of it.
Do Not Open!!
A cell phone went off, but the ringtone wasn’t familiar. Scott jumped; on the couch, Carina stirred. It took Scott a minute to realize that it was coming from his suit jacket. With his free hand, he reached inside and pulled out a small black burn phone. The number was unlisted.
Carina’s eyes snapped open. They widened as she took in their surroundings, her gaze prowling up his body lasciviously enough for Scott to start blushing again. But after that brief lapse, Agent Miller took over. “What’s going?” she asked, sitting up.
“I don’t know,” Scott replied. “I just woke up myself. I was already wearing the tux, and this was in my pocket.”
He held up the ringing phone.
“Going to answer it before it goes to voicemail?” Her eyes trailed down to his wrist and the briefcase handcuffed to him.
Scott shrugged and pressed the ‘talk’ button. “Who is this?”
“Agent Barstow.” The voice on the other end of the phone was modulated and careful—and they knew his name. Crap. “You have thirty minutes to deliver the briefcase to the address on the note by the door. You will be given further instructions once you arrive.”
“What are you—”
“Fail to complete this mission, Agent, and a lot of people will die.”
The line went dead.
Scott slowly hung up the phone and looked at Carina. She stared back for a second before she let out a long sigh. “Our night just got weirder, didn’t it?” she asked.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but, yes. Yes, it did.”
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Date: 2012-10-27 06:25 am (UTC)That fact was strange enough. The fact that he was also dry, and wearing boxers as opposed to his preferred briefs was even stranger. And frankly a bit disconcerting, if he was going to be completely honest with himself. He recognized the feel of the tux—the restrictive, pinching shoes, the cut of the pants, the fit of the jacket around his shoulders, and most of all the fact that the bowtie was partially restricting his airflow—all before he was fully awake. Multiple missions prior to the Bartowski clan had seen to that.
Still, it took him a minute before he opened his eyes, just in case he had somehow fallen asleep on a mission. If a superior was about to chew him out, might as well enjoy the obliviousness for a minute.
There was no superior standing over him and glaring. Instead, he awoke to find himself in an unfamiliar room, stretched out on a recliner.
Wearing a tuxedo.
He lifted his head, noting the room dimensions, egress points, looking for any signs of a hostile force, before he saw her. There was a couch a few feet away from his recliner which looked dusty from years of disuse—and smelled worse—and Carina was asleep on the cushions, curled on her side. Her hair flowed like a soft red waterfall over the side, her face was slack with sleep, and she wore a black dress that was as stunning as it was brief.
As Scott stared at her, perplexed—she had definitely not been wearing that before, he would have remembered—she rolled over onto her back. The dress hem inched up a couple of inches, exposing more thigh.
Scott looked at the ceiling very quickly. He tried to lift his arm to rub his face with his hand, but it was attached to something. Handcuffed, he saw, to some kind of metal briefcase on the floor.
What the hell?
He pushed the footrest down into the seat, pulling the recliner to its upright position and leaned over to pick up the briefcase. He set it in his lap and stared, bewildered, at the post-it note on top of it.
Do Not Open!!
A cell phone went off, but the ringtone wasn’t familiar. Scott jumped; on the couch, Carina stirred. It took Scott a minute to realize that it was coming from his suit jacket. With his free hand, he reached inside and pulled out a small black burn phone. The number was unlisted.
Carina’s eyes snapped open. They widened as she took in their surroundings, her gaze prowling up his body lasciviously enough for Scott to start blushing again. But after that brief lapse, Agent Miller took over. “What’s going?” she asked, sitting up.
“I don’t know,” Scott replied. “I just woke up myself. I was already wearing the tux, and this was in my pocket.”
He held up the ringing phone.
“Going to answer it before it goes to voicemail?” Her eyes trailed down to his wrist and the briefcase handcuffed to him.
Scott shrugged and pressed the ‘talk’ button. “Who is this?”
“Agent Barstow.” The voice on the other end of the phone was modulated and careful—and they knew his name. Crap. “You have thirty minutes to deliver the briefcase to the address on the note by the door. You will be given further instructions once you arrive.”
“What are you—”
“Fail to complete this mission, Agent, and a lot of people will die.”
The line went dead.
Scott slowly hung up the phone and looked at Carina. She stared back for a second before she let out a long sigh. “Our night just got weirder, didn’t it?” she asked.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but, yes. Yes, it did.”