historically inaccurate but well-meaning t-rex (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scriveyner) wrote2016-11-16 03:07 pm
scriveyner) wrote2016-11-16 03:07 pm
Entry tags:
- au: spyfic,
- character: allura,
- character: allura (spy),
- character: hunk,
- character: hunk (spy),
- character: keith,
- character: keith (spy),
- character: lance,
- character: lance (spy),
- character: pidge gunderson,
- character: pidge gunderson (spy),
- character: takashi shirogane,
- character: takashi shirogane (spy),
- genre: multi-part,
- pairing: lance/allura,
- pairing: shiro/keith,
- series: voltron legendary defender,
- wc: under 5000
Voltron Legendary Defender (Spy AU) - martinis, girls & guns [9] [Sheith + Allurance]
Title: martinis, girls & guns [9]
Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender
AU: Spyfic
Characters/Pairing: Shiro/Keith, Lance/Allura, Hunk, Pidge
Rating: M
Length: 2635
Summary: The dining car was about as big as could be expected; several two-person booths that lined each side of the carriage.
The dining car was about as big as could be expected; several two-person booths that lined each side of the carriage. At the far end of the second car was a small bar tucked into a corner with an actual, real bartender. Lance stepped through the door that separated the two carriages and after a moment's consideration, made a beeline for the bar.
When he had stepped out of the small box shower shared by the two compartments, Allura had settled under the mess of covers. She watched him get dressed with a lazy expression, but didn't say anything. There really wasn't anything to say, he wagered, and Lance brushed his short brown hair back and shrugged on the shoulder holster he was wearing under the suit coat, opting out of the tie entirely.
Allura sat up on the shallow bed, one hand holding the sheet to her chest but the fabric didn't quite cover the swell of her breasts on both sides. He glanced over at the movement, hesitating only a moment before he shrugged on the suit jacket, covering the shoulder holster. "It's almost time," Lance said. "Aren't you going to get dressed?"
"You don't need to worry about me," Allura said, her voice light.
"I wasn't," Lance said shortly, surprised at the curt words that escaped his mouth. Allura didn't bother to look offended, in fact she almost looked pleased at his reaction, and that was nearly as unsettling. Without any other conversation, Lance slipped out of the private compartment and headed for the dining car. His head didn't feel right.
There were several people in the dining car already, most wearing casual garb but a few in business attire. Leaning a little against the bar Lance ordered the most expensive drink he could think of and charged it to the passenger compartment. As the bartender worked on fixing his drink someone else stepped up to the bar beside him and Lance glanced sideways at Keith.
The tiniest hint of a bruise was forming just above the collar of the tailored suit he wore. Lance snorted as the bartender pushed the drink over to him. "I see you've been busy," he said, and Keith Very Pointedly Ignored Him and ordered two drinks. "You know, I'd advise against getting intimately involved with your partner," Lance said, turning so he was leaning against the bar on his elbow and looking down the length of the dining car. Shiro was not hard to spot, his hair was an easy identifier; and he sat relaxed in a booth, his arm hooked over the back of the seat and legs crossed very loosely, watching them at the bar. "It never ends well."
"You're one to talk," Keith snorted. He cast a weathered eye over Lance and Lance did not self-consciously touch his hair to see if it was dry yet. Keith leaned in closer, so he could speak low without being overheard. "You're not the only one to have fucked her," he hissed without a change in expression. "So don't bother getting cocky." Then he picked up the two lowball glasses and made his way down the carriage to where Shiro sat.
Lance shrugged one shoulder and picked up his own drink. "I'm always cocky," he murmured into the glass, although Keith was clearly out of earshot, and then he turned back to the bar.
#
Hunk had gotten dressed first, unabashed; while Pidge chewed on the end of the pencil that Hunk had used to draw the symbols he had seen on a monitor in the van. They were definitely a language, he could feel it by the flow of the writing, but it was truly unlike any he had studied. She had scanned the image in on her phone and was running it through a system he was fairly sure came directly from the Garrison. It was flashing characters from every known source of language that had been cataloged, both real and fictional; and while her computer was powerful enough to do the search quickly it was held back by the limitations of the internet it was connecting to.
He left her to her work, closing the compartment door behind himself with a reminder about the time dinner would be served. Pidge raised her hand to acknowledge his reminder, but she didn't look up and she didn't stop what she was doing, too far in the zone.
Hunk looked up and down the hallway. He knew the direction of the dining cars would be toward the front of the train, closer to the first-class compartments. He'd stretch his legs a little first. Hunk tugged on the cuff of the tailored jacket and didn't bother wasting the momentum to wonder about when the princess had managed to get his measurements so perfectly.
There were a few passengers about, people who were making trips back and forth to the communal lavatories. The last passenger car ended in a locked door, showing cars behind that carried freight. It was a simple matter to bypass that lock; Hunk very casually forced the door and let himself through.
The key to snooping around was to make certain you looked like you were supposed to be there. It was the first and simplest rule, something that could be taught but for most people came innately. Hunk walked through the first of the freight cars with purpose, glancing over shipping containers and crates; as well as additional luggage brought on by the wealthier patrons fo the train line. The doors between the freight cars weren't locked, unlike the one between the passenger car and the freight, and Hunk slipped into the second car, much like the first.
When he opened the door to the third car he surprised three men sitting around a crate whose top was doubling for a card table.. Their suit jackets were thrown over the back of folding chairs, and at least one still held a full hand fo cards. All three men, burly and thick, with wrestlers' builds, looked up at the interruption.
All of their eyes were yellow.
"Pardon me," Hunk said, and closed the door.
#
There were usually three options available in any given confrontation. The first was fight: which had its advantages even in terrain that he wasn't familiar with. The arena was small and enclosed; with towering crates of shipping containers and various freight lashed to the walls and ground for stability it provided a direct line from point A to point B with no deviation; no way for them to get behind him and cut him off from an escape route and most importantly, no real way for them to come at him in any other formation than one at a time. Of course, all of that was moot if they had guns, which they most likely did – in which case Hunk would get shot and that would be that. The upside to the freightcar was also its drawback – no cover, no place to hide, no easy escape.
All that led into the second option; flight. If he could get out of the freight cars and back to the passenger cars he could ditch them – provided they were not of the type of goon who would go compartment to compartment. There were only so many places to hide on a train for a person of his size. Flight also had the additional peril that these men, whoever they are, might hurt the other passengers, and Hunk wasn't about to endanger anyone else if he could help it.
The third option was one rarely looked at but stood useful all the same: surrender. It was not always the favorable aspect, but sometimes it was best to just throw up your hands and lull the enemy into a false sense of security by submitting to capture, as if you were looking out for your personal number one and not at the benefit of your mission. The trick there was to not end up shot in the face if your enemy wasn't interested in taking prisoners.
All of this flashed through Hunk's head as he heard the door between the freight cars break. He had barely made it to the threshold between the first and second train cars when the door came down and one of the men stepped through. He was not wearing a suit jacket, the dirty white collared shirt had the top few buttons undone and the cuffs rolled halfway up his arms. He didn't appear to have a weapon in his hand, which was encouraging. The man would not have looked out of place at any of the pubs along the strip; except for the distinctly unnatural look of his eyes. Hunk kept his back to the door, and his stance low, watching the man without flinching.
Option one, it was.
#
The dining car was about half full by the time Pidge walked through the door. Not long after Hunk had left she'd decided to see what exactly the "princess" (Pidge would bet cash money hard on the fact that the woman wasn't a princess at all) had in store for her. To her surprise, when she'd unzipped the opaque clothing bag, it was also a trim, tailored suit. Grudgingly, Pidge noted that as one point in the woman's favor, and when the suit fit her exactly, she would be forced to add on an additional point. Grateful to be free of the accursed wig, Pidge slicked back her hair and forewent the glasses, stepping into the first dining car right on time.
Shiro and Keith were sitting together in a booth not far from the door. Four people could squeeze into it if they were feeling adventuresome; but they each occupied their opposite sides of the booth fully. Shiro's back was to the door, although he tilted his head back as she stalked past with purpose, refusing to meet either of their eyes.
Lance stood at the bar alone in a similarly tailored suit dark suit with a blue shirt. He looked over at Pidge and nodded his head appreciatively. "Not bad, pipsqueak," he said with a smirk, and Pidge ignored him.
"Have you got anything out of her?" Pidge asked instead of engaging with Lance when he was clearly in the mood to be a massive dick. At the way his smirk shifted and settled she groaned and said, "anything useful?"
"Depends on your definition of useful," Lance said thoughtfully, and picked up the drink on the bar in front of him.
Lance moved a short way away, to a booth against the wall of the train, framed by a dark window lashed with rain. It wasn't particularly close to Shiro's booth, and after a moment Pidge followed him, sliding into the seat opposite. "Hunk thinks there's something fishy, and I do too," Pidge said. "He found all sorts of weird writing in their van, and I can't match it to any known writing system."
"Pidge, you're so paranoid," Lance said, and there was a mockingly affectionate undertone to his voice. "It's adorable."
She bristled. "You're drunk."
"Not particularly." Lance looked at his glass and frowned. "Not even a little, actually. They mix the drinks weak here, it's criminal." He looked back up to Pidge's expression. "I was the one who didn't want to go along with this," he reminded her. "Don't tell me you're getting second thoughts now."
"It's not second thoughts," Pidge said. "There's something else going on here that she's not telling us, and I think they," she tilted her head back just a little, indicating the table that Shiro and Keith sat at, "know what's up."
Lance was silent a long moment. "What does Hunk think?" he said.
"Hunk's suspicious," she said. She looked up and down the dining car, brow furrowed as if she was just recognizing the fact that Hunk's presence was missing from the conversation at hand. "Speaking of," she said. "Where the heck is he? He left before I did."
"Probably in the other car," Lance said. "I hadn't cleared both, I saw the bar, and," he shrugged his shoulders lightly. "This is the lounge area, the food's through there. That's where I'd be, if I was Hunk."
Pidge gave him a Look and Lance shrugged again. "We help her stop this GALRA organization, save the world, get paid and retire. I don't really care what her reasons are for it, and neither should you." Pidge kept staring at him strangely, and then leaned forward.
"You slept with her already," Pidge said, appalled.
Lance didn't respond and took a sip of his drink.
"Oh my god, Lance. Can't you keep your dick in your pants for three consecutive days?" Pidge groaned and propped her chin in her hand. "You're so useless. We should have you fixed like a dog."
"Hey," Lance said. "I don't let it affect our missions."
"Yeah, sure you don't," Pidge muttered. She slid out of the booth. "I'm going to go find Hunk, he's the last one of us with any sense left in his head. Can I trust you not to trip and stick your dick in anything else for a few hours?"
Lance said, "you know I outrank you, right?"
Pidge rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "You know that all that went out the window when we went rogue on the Garrison, right?" She slammed the palm of her hand against the end of the table and leaned forward. "I don't trust her, Lance," she said in a low voice. "And neither should you. We can still take them all in, if it comes down to it."
"Yeah," Lance said. "What do you think I've been keeping in my back pocket?" He took a long pull of his drink, and Pidge inclined her head in half a nod, before straightening and heading toward the other dining car.
#
"They're up to something," Keith said around his scotch.
"Of course they're up to something," Shiro's voice was mild. "They're Garrison-trained, they don't trust us and we don't trust them. It's not exactly the best recipe to start with." His own drink sat on the table still, mostly untouched. He tapped the fingers of his right hand along the table's edge, the heavy ping of them noticeable. "I should check on Allura," he said, and Keith raised an eyebrow, still holding his glass close to his mouth.
"Now who's jealous?" he murmured, and was gratified at the very faint blush that appeared under the faded scar. "Yeah, go on," he said, and Shiro stood up from the table. "I'm drinking your bourbon if you don't come back soon," he added, as Shiro disappeared out the door. Keith sat down his glass and sighed, and glanced toward the dark window that the booth framed. The only thing he could see was his own reflection, staring back at him.
Well, he wasn't going to sulk until Shiro came back, not when he had other options.
Keith slid out of the booth as well, picked up Shiro's drink in his other hand, and walked the length of the car before setting both drinks down on Lance's table. Lance had been looking out the window in a skewed mirror image of Keith a moment before, and his expression changed in the reflection, brow downturned, before he looked over at Keith proper.
Without waiting for an acknowledgment or an invitation (that he knew would not come), Keith seated himself opposite Lance. "We don't have to get along," Keith said. "But we are supposed to be working together."
Lance's scowl only deepened, and Keith kicked back the last of his scotch, switching his attention to the lowball glass of bourbon. It was going to be a long night.
Fandom: Voltron Legendary Defender
AU: Spyfic
Characters/Pairing: Shiro/Keith, Lance/Allura, Hunk, Pidge
Rating: M
Length: 2635
Summary: The dining car was about as big as could be expected; several two-person booths that lined each side of the carriage.
The dining car was about as big as could be expected; several two-person booths that lined each side of the carriage. At the far end of the second car was a small bar tucked into a corner with an actual, real bartender. Lance stepped through the door that separated the two carriages and after a moment's consideration, made a beeline for the bar.
When he had stepped out of the small box shower shared by the two compartments, Allura had settled under the mess of covers. She watched him get dressed with a lazy expression, but didn't say anything. There really wasn't anything to say, he wagered, and Lance brushed his short brown hair back and shrugged on the shoulder holster he was wearing under the suit coat, opting out of the tie entirely.
Allura sat up on the shallow bed, one hand holding the sheet to her chest but the fabric didn't quite cover the swell of her breasts on both sides. He glanced over at the movement, hesitating only a moment before he shrugged on the suit jacket, covering the shoulder holster. "It's almost time," Lance said. "Aren't you going to get dressed?"
"You don't need to worry about me," Allura said, her voice light.
"I wasn't," Lance said shortly, surprised at the curt words that escaped his mouth. Allura didn't bother to look offended, in fact she almost looked pleased at his reaction, and that was nearly as unsettling. Without any other conversation, Lance slipped out of the private compartment and headed for the dining car. His head didn't feel right.
There were several people in the dining car already, most wearing casual garb but a few in business attire. Leaning a little against the bar Lance ordered the most expensive drink he could think of and charged it to the passenger compartment. As the bartender worked on fixing his drink someone else stepped up to the bar beside him and Lance glanced sideways at Keith.
The tiniest hint of a bruise was forming just above the collar of the tailored suit he wore. Lance snorted as the bartender pushed the drink over to him. "I see you've been busy," he said, and Keith Very Pointedly Ignored Him and ordered two drinks. "You know, I'd advise against getting intimately involved with your partner," Lance said, turning so he was leaning against the bar on his elbow and looking down the length of the dining car. Shiro was not hard to spot, his hair was an easy identifier; and he sat relaxed in a booth, his arm hooked over the back of the seat and legs crossed very loosely, watching them at the bar. "It never ends well."
"You're one to talk," Keith snorted. He cast a weathered eye over Lance and Lance did not self-consciously touch his hair to see if it was dry yet. Keith leaned in closer, so he could speak low without being overheard. "You're not the only one to have fucked her," he hissed without a change in expression. "So don't bother getting cocky." Then he picked up the two lowball glasses and made his way down the carriage to where Shiro sat.
Lance shrugged one shoulder and picked up his own drink. "I'm always cocky," he murmured into the glass, although Keith was clearly out of earshot, and then he turned back to the bar.
Hunk had gotten dressed first, unabashed; while Pidge chewed on the end of the pencil that Hunk had used to draw the symbols he had seen on a monitor in the van. They were definitely a language, he could feel it by the flow of the writing, but it was truly unlike any he had studied. She had scanned the image in on her phone and was running it through a system he was fairly sure came directly from the Garrison. It was flashing characters from every known source of language that had been cataloged, both real and fictional; and while her computer was powerful enough to do the search quickly it was held back by the limitations of the internet it was connecting to.
He left her to her work, closing the compartment door behind himself with a reminder about the time dinner would be served. Pidge raised her hand to acknowledge his reminder, but she didn't look up and she didn't stop what she was doing, too far in the zone.
Hunk looked up and down the hallway. He knew the direction of the dining cars would be toward the front of the train, closer to the first-class compartments. He'd stretch his legs a little first. Hunk tugged on the cuff of the tailored jacket and didn't bother wasting the momentum to wonder about when the princess had managed to get his measurements so perfectly.
There were a few passengers about, people who were making trips back and forth to the communal lavatories. The last passenger car ended in a locked door, showing cars behind that carried freight. It was a simple matter to bypass that lock; Hunk very casually forced the door and let himself through.
The key to snooping around was to make certain you looked like you were supposed to be there. It was the first and simplest rule, something that could be taught but for most people came innately. Hunk walked through the first of the freight cars with purpose, glancing over shipping containers and crates; as well as additional luggage brought on by the wealthier patrons fo the train line. The doors between the freight cars weren't locked, unlike the one between the passenger car and the freight, and Hunk slipped into the second car, much like the first.
When he opened the door to the third car he surprised three men sitting around a crate whose top was doubling for a card table.. Their suit jackets were thrown over the back of folding chairs, and at least one still held a full hand fo cards. All three men, burly and thick, with wrestlers' builds, looked up at the interruption.
All of their eyes were yellow.
"Pardon me," Hunk said, and closed the door.
There were usually three options available in any given confrontation. The first was fight: which had its advantages even in terrain that he wasn't familiar with. The arena was small and enclosed; with towering crates of shipping containers and various freight lashed to the walls and ground for stability it provided a direct line from point A to point B with no deviation; no way for them to get behind him and cut him off from an escape route and most importantly, no real way for them to come at him in any other formation than one at a time. Of course, all of that was moot if they had guns, which they most likely did – in which case Hunk would get shot and that would be that. The upside to the freightcar was also its drawback – no cover, no place to hide, no easy escape.
All that led into the second option; flight. If he could get out of the freight cars and back to the passenger cars he could ditch them – provided they were not of the type of goon who would go compartment to compartment. There were only so many places to hide on a train for a person of his size. Flight also had the additional peril that these men, whoever they are, might hurt the other passengers, and Hunk wasn't about to endanger anyone else if he could help it.
The third option was one rarely looked at but stood useful all the same: surrender. It was not always the favorable aspect, but sometimes it was best to just throw up your hands and lull the enemy into a false sense of security by submitting to capture, as if you were looking out for your personal number one and not at the benefit of your mission. The trick there was to not end up shot in the face if your enemy wasn't interested in taking prisoners.
All of this flashed through Hunk's head as he heard the door between the freight cars break. He had barely made it to the threshold between the first and second train cars when the door came down and one of the men stepped through. He was not wearing a suit jacket, the dirty white collared shirt had the top few buttons undone and the cuffs rolled halfway up his arms. He didn't appear to have a weapon in his hand, which was encouraging. The man would not have looked out of place at any of the pubs along the strip; except for the distinctly unnatural look of his eyes. Hunk kept his back to the door, and his stance low, watching the man without flinching.
Option one, it was.
The dining car was about half full by the time Pidge walked through the door. Not long after Hunk had left she'd decided to see what exactly the "princess" (Pidge would bet cash money hard on the fact that the woman wasn't a princess at all) had in store for her. To her surprise, when she'd unzipped the opaque clothing bag, it was also a trim, tailored suit. Grudgingly, Pidge noted that as one point in the woman's favor, and when the suit fit her exactly, she would be forced to add on an additional point. Grateful to be free of the accursed wig, Pidge slicked back her hair and forewent the glasses, stepping into the first dining car right on time.
Shiro and Keith were sitting together in a booth not far from the door. Four people could squeeze into it if they were feeling adventuresome; but they each occupied their opposite sides of the booth fully. Shiro's back was to the door, although he tilted his head back as she stalked past with purpose, refusing to meet either of their eyes.
Lance stood at the bar alone in a similarly tailored suit dark suit with a blue shirt. He looked over at Pidge and nodded his head appreciatively. "Not bad, pipsqueak," he said with a smirk, and Pidge ignored him.
"Have you got anything out of her?" Pidge asked instead of engaging with Lance when he was clearly in the mood to be a massive dick. At the way his smirk shifted and settled she groaned and said, "anything useful?"
"Depends on your definition of useful," Lance said thoughtfully, and picked up the drink on the bar in front of him.
Lance moved a short way away, to a booth against the wall of the train, framed by a dark window lashed with rain. It wasn't particularly close to Shiro's booth, and after a moment Pidge followed him, sliding into the seat opposite. "Hunk thinks there's something fishy, and I do too," Pidge said. "He found all sorts of weird writing in their van, and I can't match it to any known writing system."
"Pidge, you're so paranoid," Lance said, and there was a mockingly affectionate undertone to his voice. "It's adorable."
She bristled. "You're drunk."
"Not particularly." Lance looked at his glass and frowned. "Not even a little, actually. They mix the drinks weak here, it's criminal." He looked back up to Pidge's expression. "I was the one who didn't want to go along with this," he reminded her. "Don't tell me you're getting second thoughts now."
"It's not second thoughts," Pidge said. "There's something else going on here that she's not telling us, and I think they," she tilted her head back just a little, indicating the table that Shiro and Keith sat at, "know what's up."
Lance was silent a long moment. "What does Hunk think?" he said.
"Hunk's suspicious," she said. She looked up and down the dining car, brow furrowed as if she was just recognizing the fact that Hunk's presence was missing from the conversation at hand. "Speaking of," she said. "Where the heck is he? He left before I did."
"Probably in the other car," Lance said. "I hadn't cleared both, I saw the bar, and," he shrugged his shoulders lightly. "This is the lounge area, the food's through there. That's where I'd be, if I was Hunk."
Pidge gave him a Look and Lance shrugged again. "We help her stop this GALRA organization, save the world, get paid and retire. I don't really care what her reasons are for it, and neither should you." Pidge kept staring at him strangely, and then leaned forward.
"You slept with her already," Pidge said, appalled.
Lance didn't respond and took a sip of his drink.
"Oh my god, Lance. Can't you keep your dick in your pants for three consecutive days?" Pidge groaned and propped her chin in her hand. "You're so useless. We should have you fixed like a dog."
"Hey," Lance said. "I don't let it affect our missions."
"Yeah, sure you don't," Pidge muttered. She slid out of the booth. "I'm going to go find Hunk, he's the last one of us with any sense left in his head. Can I trust you not to trip and stick your dick in anything else for a few hours?"
Lance said, "you know I outrank you, right?"
Pidge rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. "You know that all that went out the window when we went rogue on the Garrison, right?" She slammed the palm of her hand against the end of the table and leaned forward. "I don't trust her, Lance," she said in a low voice. "And neither should you. We can still take them all in, if it comes down to it."
"Yeah," Lance said. "What do you think I've been keeping in my back pocket?" He took a long pull of his drink, and Pidge inclined her head in half a nod, before straightening and heading toward the other dining car.
"They're up to something," Keith said around his scotch.
"Of course they're up to something," Shiro's voice was mild. "They're Garrison-trained, they don't trust us and we don't trust them. It's not exactly the best recipe to start with." His own drink sat on the table still, mostly untouched. He tapped the fingers of his right hand along the table's edge, the heavy ping of them noticeable. "I should check on Allura," he said, and Keith raised an eyebrow, still holding his glass close to his mouth.
"Now who's jealous?" he murmured, and was gratified at the very faint blush that appeared under the faded scar. "Yeah, go on," he said, and Shiro stood up from the table. "I'm drinking your bourbon if you don't come back soon," he added, as Shiro disappeared out the door. Keith sat down his glass and sighed, and glanced toward the dark window that the booth framed. The only thing he could see was his own reflection, staring back at him.
Well, he wasn't going to sulk until Shiro came back, not when he had other options.
Keith slid out of the booth as well, picked up Shiro's drink in his other hand, and walked the length of the car before setting both drinks down on Lance's table. Lance had been looking out the window in a skewed mirror image of Keith a moment before, and his expression changed in the reflection, brow downturned, before he looked over at Keith proper.
Without waiting for an acknowledgment or an invitation (that he knew would not come), Keith seated himself opposite Lance. "We don't have to get along," Keith said. "But we are supposed to be working together."
Lance's scowl only deepened, and Keith kicked back the last of his scotch, switching his attention to the lowball glass of bourbon. It was going to be a long night.