Don't Make it Personal AA/TW

Obeisance

CHAPTER 7- OBEISANCE

Stiles had been in Paris for two weeks now. Gathering intel on the emergence of a supposed terrorist cell out of Porte de la Chapelle.

The stubborn Agent unsuccessfully tried to convince Stan to let him preform the mission alone. He didn't like to work with a team. Stiles favoured being a ghost. Preferring to not wash his fallen teammates blood off his chapped hands and letting porcelain sink turn an evil red. Every execution was on him. Their last breaths on repeat every time he closed his eyes. Especially Katrina's.

Stan couldn't blame the kid. Stiles sort of had a knack for being the only one to make it back from a mission alive. At this point his 'camaraderie' with death was almost comical.

To be honest, Stiles had no problem not making it home at the end of a long operation, sometimes even wishing for it. For the day's quiet sunset to be his last; To finally meet the spiritual bastard who had no problem taking everyone around him. The entity that for some reason, kept him alive.

Stiles' wasn't so sure that his luck was a good thing. Instead he saw it as a big 'fuck you' from the universe. A preverbal cage holding the man hostage to life. A life he never wanted in the first place.

The only person death hadn't been able to take was Annika. Albeit, the mysterious force of cessation tried to demolish her existence every chance it got. Littering the beautiful woman's body with an array of cuts and bruises.

After the whole 'Ghost fiasco', Stiles' and Annika's relationship had been rocky. It took years for Stiles to trust her again. To look her in the eyes after what she had done. He wasn't sure why Irene even kept the girl around.

But hey, they seem to make a good team.

Every op started out the same. Irene would brief Stiles on whatever threat was facing America that week, arguing that 'it was too dangerous for him to go alone' before sticking Annika on the case with him. Stiles' would argue, exclaiming that he could do the job himself, he didn't need a babysitter. Stiles was like a broken record. His protests always falling on deaf ears.

After an hour of excruciating word gymnastics, Stiles' would reluctantly give in. Allowing Annika to follow him into whatever fucked up situation the CIA had thrown at them. The rest was simple really. Collect intel, kill the bad guy, then, well... you know.

Stiles' isn't exactly sure how that happened. It was just a regular Thursday afternoon, the pair had been shacked up in a dimly lit motel room on the outskirts of Syria. The warm air solidifying the sweat on their faces. One minute they were yelling at each other because Stiles had been shot (again), and the next thing he knew, Annika's lips were shoved forcefully against his own; Her tongue longing to make his mouth a home. As much as Stiles' didn't want to admit it, he had feelings for the foreign woman.

It went against his code. He was supposed to be a blip. A mere cosmic mistake. Annika was ruining that plan. Nuzzling herself deep within Stiles' dead elastic heart, begging it to expand with her presence.

—-Location: Paris, France—-Date: August 20th—Time: 1540 hrs—

The streets of Paris were loud. Too loud.

Stiles' could barely hear himself think. He was dressed in his usual black crewneck and un-tailored jeans, watching the bustling crowd encapsulate the narrow walkways. He wished he could be normal. Wished he could pick a stranger out of the horde of people and resume their life. Maybe they had a family....Something Stiles' hadn't been privileged with in years.

To his right, Annika was on the phone with Irene trying to figure out the location of their informant. Stiles had taken accustomed to her doing all the liaison work. The less he had to talk to people the better. It was funny, how little was left of the hyperactive teenage boy the pack had known so well.