It starts off as a tactical approach during overnight missions. Foregoing dingy separate rooms for the safety of sleeping back to back. It’s practical, they say, protects both of them, even though neither of them really needs that extra protection.
At some point during the night, they subconsciously move nearer to their respective partner. A muscular arm, built by the resilience of a bow string, tossed over her toned back. Pale fingers cradling a dusty blonde head. Faces so close, their lips nearly brush up against each others in their pchyes’ desperate attempt for closeness. Bodies doing what stubborn minds refuse to.
And on the off chance one of the infamous duo would wake (each having taught themselves to be light sleepers) and find their person to be tangled up in the others, neither would slowly move away, make more distance. The agent would just drowsily blink the situation into reality, maybe even take in the cool skin beneath their fingertips, shift impossibly closer, and then drift easily back to sleep.
Because laying there, blanketed in that kind of depthless warmth, they shed every layer, all the false fronts and carefully constructed walls, secret identities; they bare it all. There’s no more agents, no more spies or archers. Names are useless, too. It’s not broken childhoods or implanted memories. It’s not innocent blood or dead families.
It’s trust. It’s all they have and never knew they needed.