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A bad idea

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"This was a bad idea," Jemilla hissed once more, and Zazzalil rolled her eyes. She had done it so much over the course of the evening that her eyeballs hurt.

She took a sip of her drink, a bright orange non-alcoholic beverage, frowning at the lipstick stain she left on the previously immaculate glass. Next to her, Jemilla's legs bounced up and down anxiously. Zazzalil's grabbed her colleague's knee, and scoffed when her eyes grew wide in surprise.

"We're going to get caught," she whispered, "you need to look more casual."

Jemilla smiled nervously, brushing her knuckles on her thighs to release some tension.

"This is probably your worst idea," she muttered, stirring her glass of orange juice with her straw, and Zazzalil chuckled. It might not be the best of ideas, but it was the only one they had. Molag had approved it, and since Molag was the boss, Molag made the decisions.

"If this goes wrong, there could be major repercussions," Jemilla repeated, "I can't even begin to fathom everything that could go wrong, and you know how good I am at imagining every worst case scenario possible."

"The best," Zazzalil scoffed, "but don't worry, everything will go perfectly."

"There is so way this will go perfectly," Jemilla hissed, "we're just hanging out in a bar, waiting for a man that we might recognise from the description of one drunk guy and one weeping old lady: caucasian, menacing, broad shouldered, very thick eyebrows. This is all we have. There are many guys like him."

"I know," Zazzalil sighed, "we can all name asshole white men, but we also know that he's supposed to be here tonight, talking to-"

Zazzalil paused for effect, but Jemilla just squinted frustratingly.

"- that lady over there. Layla Carmen, with the green dress and high pitched giggle."

"And what exactly are we supposed to do when he enters?" Jemilla asked.

"We'll just improvise," Zazzalil replied cheerily, sipping her drink again. Jemilla made a noise halfway between a whine and a sob.

"This is a terrible-"

She stopped mid sentence and Zazzalil frowned, confused, before noticing where her colleague had just been looking.

Jemilla sat straighter, relaxing her shoulder and grabbing her drink. She turned, resting an elbow on the bar so she was facing the door. Her eyes were fixed on Jazzalil, a sweet smile spreading on her face. No one out of earshot could guess her true intentions.

"He's here," she murmured, leaning towards Zazzalil, her voice soft and smooth, a knee brushing her thigh.

"How did you recognise him?" Zazzalil asked. "Is it-"

"The eyebrows," they said at the same time, and they chuckled, resolutely looking in each others' eyes to avoid staring at the suspect. It wasn't their first undercover mission in a bar, they knew how to look unsuspicious.

Zazzalil took the opportunity to admire Jemilla's smile. She was gorgeous, and Zazzalil had to stop herself from brushing her hair through the other woman's hair, maybe kiss her. She had wanted to do that for months, but crushes on your colleagues were very unprofessional, so instead she looked down at the lipstick stain on her glass and tried to steal a glance at Layla Carmen's table.

She could see a man, tall and broad. He was sitting close to Layla, close enough that they could pass a note or package under the table unnoticed. Soon, too soon for it to be normal, he was up again.

Zazzalil could see that Jemilla had made the same conclusion, and they stood up, still with overly sweet smiles on their faces, walking towards the door. Jemilla's fingers brushed against the small of her back and she resisted the urge to lean into the touch and ask her to dance. They were on a mission.

They were out of the bar before the man even reached the door. With a nod, they split up, each guarding a side of the street. Zazzalil noticed Jemilla's hand, tugging lightly at the side of her leather jacket to hide her gun. Unnoticeable for those who didn't know it was there, but Zazzalil was a trained spy, and a master in the art of observing Jemilla.

She leaned against a wall casually, hidden in the shadows. She took a cigarette in her left hand. She didn't smoke anymore, but to the untrained eye, the right hand in her purse could be reaching for a lighter. They probably wouldn't suspect a gun.

The man walked out of the door, breathing in sharply in the cold of the night, and Zazzalil tried not to tense, her hand brushing through her chestnut curls so she could steal a look at their suspect. Jemilla was out of sight, probably crouched behind the trash cans a few feet away.

The man took a box of cigarettes from his breast pocket and Zazzalil tried not to smile. He walked toward her and she pretended to ignore him.

"Got a lighter for me, sweetheart?" his voice rang, rough and deep.

She raised her head with a friendly smile, nodding as she took a step towards him. He was an easy target. He was tall, probably two or three feet taller than her, and his eyebrows were, indeed, incredibly thick. The street was empty, no noise sounding outside other than the empty echo of the music inside, and the faint rush of what was probably Jemilla getting ready to jump out of hiding. The man didn't seem to notice.

He took one more step towards her and she took a gun from her purse, planting it in his crotch. The man's eyes grew wide, a flash of anger passed in his eyes.

He made a movement to hit her, but seemed to stop in his tracks at the sound of two guns' cocks lifting, barely a second apart.

"I wouldn't move if I were you, buddy," Jemilla's voice rung, sweet like honey, her gun on the back of the man's neck.

"Would you care to follow us, good sir?" Zazzalil mused, a grin spreading on her face.

His jaw clenched, but he raised his hands nonetheless.

"Good boy," Jemilla chuckled, and Zazzalil caught a glimpse of the other woman's smile. She was gorgeous.

Soon his wrist were locked in handcuffed and they led him to the car, pushing him in the backstead. Jemilla buckled his seatbelt for him, patted the top of his head like she would a child's. Zazzalil found it very satisfying.

She sat in front of the wheel as Jemilla took her place on the passenger seat.

"Do I get to pick the music?" she asked, and Zazzalil grinned wider.

"Hey, criminal in the backseat," she called, satisfied by his frustrated expression, "what kind of music do you like?"

"Anything but Disney," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Zazzalil met Jemilla's eyes and handed her the aux cord, a silent agreement. Soon enough, they were loudly singing along to Let It Go.


Three more hours and they were done, the man in a cell, Molag satisfied and the sun slowly rising on the horizon.

Jemilla's hair was a beautiful mess, her white shirt wrinkled and her eyes tired.

"Great job, Zazz," she smiled as her colleague, and Zazzalil's eyes skipped a beat again.

"You too," she answered, "we make a great team."

"I'm not going to lie," Jemilla said, "for a second there I thought you were going to smoke."

"I told you I'd quit," Zazzalil answered, "I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

Jemilla smiled shyly and Zazzalil tore her eyes from that smile, unable to stop herself from blushing. Her thoughts were blurry from exhaustion and the fuzzy feeling of Jemilla's eyes looking at her the way they did, like she'd never want to look away.

Zazzalil looked at the slowly rising sun and Jemilla looked at the way the colors reflected on her colleague's face. Zazzalil pretended not to notice. It was easier not to think about it.

The bells rang six and they sighed, silently agreeing to walk back to their rooms and get some sleep. They were good at silent communication. Zazzalil tried not to think about how practical it would be in a romantic relationship. She didn't share a bond that strong with anyone but Jemilla. She kind of wished she did. Kind of loved that she didn't.

They reached the end of the corridors, where their respective doors stood, facing each other. Zazzalil turned her key in the lock, the soft click echoed through the corridor as it unlocked, and she looked back at Jemilla, who was still standing behind her, biting her lower lip nervously.

Zazzalil turned towards her, raising an eyebrow questioningly. Jemilla was close, so close.

Then Jemilla moved towards her, a small step, and Zazzalil simply looked at her, trying to decipher the look on her face. Then Jemilla's hand was on her cheek, and Jemilla's lips were on hers, soft and warm, and Zazzalil stopped herself from pushing her away and locking her arm behind her back, realising it wasn't an attack. Jemilla made to pull away and Zazzalil slid her head on the back of her neck, keeping her close. She felt Jemilla smile through the kiss, and the corner of her lips shot up too.

It was about fucking time.