Chp. I
-Leni's POV-
Gott, I hate this part of my job.
Here I am, sitting behind an unnecessarily large oak desk, scribbling down intel and logging my latest mission at the Russian border. I have a kink in my neck and a cramp in my left hand. My entire body aches. I'm exhausted and functioning on six hours of sleep and countless cups of cheap coffee over the last three days.
To make matters worse, I've just been assigned a new partner after my last partner, Agent Rebeka Klum, vanished on a recon mission in Iran. Just my shitty luck.
The Chancellor has high expectations for us as agents in the Bundesnachrichtendienst- better known as the BND- and we take pride in our roles in Deutschland's safety. Under any circumstances, even possibility of death. Everything for Germany, ja?
Sorry, bad joke. Ahem. Moving on.
I'm filling out documents to catch up on work and also to distract myself from the empty desk across from me. Her name plaque is gone, and her things cleared by the janitors. Safe to assume her status is KIA. Well, scheiße. Rebeka Klum was a good partner on the field and a good friend off of it. I push my wild tangle of blonde hair away from my forehead and rub my face. I'm sure I look a mess, probably have horrid eye bags and days-old smeared make-up. Oh well.
Wretched, because my boss comes knocking with a gift I don't want.
I drag myself to my feet and haul myself on sore legs to the door. I pull it open and force a smile.
"Hallo, Herr Kepler. Come in."
I move aside to let the older man through, his beady eyes and too-big nose with the frizzy poof of salt-and-pepper hair a now familiar sight. He's newer; my old boss moved to Britain for some reason. At least, that's what I was told. He could have been kidnapped by North Korea for all I know.
"Ah, Leni. I brought someone you will get to know closely. He will be stepping in during Rebeka's... Unfortunate absence." Kepler turns to me with a twinkle in his eye, practically mischievous. "I will leave you two to bond. Tschüss!"
He leaves and I glare as some dude strolls in and starts setting his shit up on the desk opposite of mine. Rebeka's desk.
Oh no you don't.
"Hey," I mutter, not so politely. "You cannot sit there."
He turns and grins at me. I stop dead. Holy fuck, that man's looks should be illegal. His face.... Nein, nein. He needs to find a new seat.
"I said you cannot sit there," I assert, swallowing. But my tone is less certain now. I quickly realize upon further inspection that this man isn't Deutsche, within seconds of meeting him. He's wearing faded Levi cargos and a well-used flannel paired with combat boots and a cap with a US marines pin on it. Absolutely horrid fashion taste, most certainly not Deutsche.
"You done starin'?" He teases as if we've been best friends for years, ignoring my protests as to his seating choice and sitting on the edge of the desk. He offers a calloused hand which I ignore and keeps that same easy grin. It makes sense now- the accent with the twinge of a drawl, the laid-back and too casual grin, the informal speech- Americanisch.
My new partner is a verdammt Amerikaner. Fucking hell.
I recover and manage a snort.
"No. Ach- that is, I was not staring in the first place." I scowl and turn abruptly to hide the embarrassed flush of my face. "Ahem. You should introduce yourself before making accusations."
He lowers his hand slowly and chuckles, a rich sound that I simultaneously hate and appreciate. I don't like Americans, based on just the few I've met. All of them are arrogant, overly patriotic, and downright insufferable. From the unrefined accent to the wretched fashion to the air of superiority. I can't stand them. Hot take, likely controversial, but it's my hot take and I, Leni Katzenelnbogen, stand by it until proven otherwise. Stereotype or not.
"Hold the sarcasm, please," he chuckles again. Gott, I should strangle this beautiful man. "I'm Colt. Pleased to meet you. And you are..." I can feel him watching me and waiting expectantly as I pretend to organise my desk.
I let the silence hang for a little while. I catch his reflection in the ceramic finish of my mug of cold coffee and pause. I finally take a real look at him. He's a hot guy. A bit scruffy but good-looking. Not the hottest guy ever but damn near the top five. He's golden tanned, with deep brown almond eyes beneath the cap and dirty blonde stubble. A hint of freckles splattered over his chiseled cheekbones and nose. My eyes land on his soft lips- and I immediately refocus myself.
I clear my throat. "I am Leni Katzenellenbogen. No middle name. You will call me Agent Katze, like the rest of my colleagues. Verstehen?"
I shuffle through papers and shove the mug in a drawer so I can't see Colt's reflection. I really, really don't need to be distracted right now. I don't wait for him to reply before turning back around.
"You did not state your last name. What is it?"
"Ruger. Colt Ruger." He offers a dumb bow and another stupid grin. "At your service, Agent Katze."
I bark a laugh. No way he actually expects me to believe that his name is 'Colt Ruger'.
"What, is your middle name 'Winchester', Agent Ruger? Oh, or maybe it is something less American, like 'Eagle' or 'Liberty'." I snicker and mime swiping a card. "I think I'll use my credit card." I use my best stereotypical American accent, and he looks bewildered.
"No, actually. My middle name is McKinney." I stare at him. He's joking. He has to be.
"You jest with me," I accuse. "You spew falsehoods. No one has the most fucking American name on earth and then has a fucking Irish middle name."
He just chuckles that same deep rumble of mild amusement. "My mama likes guns. Want proof of validity? I'll show you my birth certificate if that's what it takes. Besides, who are you to make fun of me when your last name alone has more letters than both my first and last name combined? And no middle name?"
He pushes off the desk he claimed earlier and moves closer. Examining me. Like I'm some new species of bug to be admired and analyzed. "My great grammy moved on over from Ireland through Ellis Island when my grampa was a little lad. My great Grampa was a farm kid turned city boy lookin' for work in NY. Long story short, they met and now I exist."
I find myself slightly annoyed by the comeback yet unexpectedly intrigued by his background. But nevertheless I shake my head.
"I did not ask for your life story, Agent Ruger. Now get your belongings settled and stay on your side of the office. I will give you a tour tomorrow."
He just shrugs and goes back to his desk, pulling out a few basic items and arranging things with a precision I know well. He clearly has background in the Marines, judging from the pin I saw earlier and the borderline obsessively pristine order he arrays his stuff in. Not to mention his build. He's clearly strong but those muscles aren't for show. He's a perfect balance of low body fat but also not too much muscle mass- lithe, but lean, not lanky. Toned but not over the top. Why am I staring?
I rub my face and fake a yawn before going back to my desk and settling in to do more paperwork before I go home. I attempt to focus but can't stop glancing up. I sigh and sit up.
"Look. I apologise for my hostility and skepticism towards you. I am simply still mourning the loss of my former partner and am still trying to process her being replaced by an American. Forgive me." I wait for a few moments before realizing he's asleep barely half an hour into the job. Out dead, head propped up on his fist and breathing quiet, steady. He looks less happy-go-lucky and more vulnerable. I grunt and watch for a moment. Cute.
Cute?
What has gotten into you, Leni? It's just a sleeping man.
Then I start packing up my files and tucking paperwork into filing cabinets. I tried. He was asleep. Not offering another apology when he's awake. I go to leave but stop at the door and turn on the heater. I know it gets cold at night in the office.
"Gut Nacht, partner. Schlaf gut." I head out and leave HQ, finding my Volkswagen in the car park and careening back to my little apartment in the heart of Berlin.
