Miss Mojito

Rufus/Elena/Tseng. PG. ~300 words.
It’s always Reno’s fault. Especially holiday fluff.

Elena is fairly certain she’s drunk.

And that she has Reno to thank for it.

Tseng deftly plucks the empty glass from her fingers, raising an eyebrow at the few sips of rum-with-eggnog left at the bottom. “Never take anything he hands you,” he says.

She knows that. But there are times when a walk on the wild side (extortion, murder, and contraband become fairly unwild after a point) is called for, and nearly everything Reno does, says or is fits the bill.

And while she may be slightly impaired, she’s sure she’s not imagining the mischievous – mischievous, Tseng is many things, but that isn’t one of them – glint in his eyes.

“Reno?” Rufus says, perfectly mimicking Reno’s tendency to pop up at the most inopportune (depending on your point of view) moment.

“Sir,” Tseng says.

Elena narrows her eyes. There’s an entire conversation in those two words.

“I-” Elena begins, determined to get a word in edge-wise about her state of intoxication, the spirit of camaraderie, and vow to not be the lightweight at her first official, unofficial, Turk holiday party.

That so happens to be taking place in the CEO’s spacious, sparsely-furnished, dimly-lit office.

“Of course it’s his doing,” Rufus says. “I’m sure he means for you to take advantage of it.”

It? It?

“There are two of us, sir,” Tseng says. “Perhaps she’d prefer you go first.”

What, Elena means to say, but then she thinks of Reno, his unrepentant grin, a sprig of mistletoe in his hand, and her last thought before her brain shudders to a delightful, squealing halt is that Rufus, Rufus, kisses the way he runs his company: calculated, demanding, and devastatingly efficient.

“Sir,” Elena says, unclenching her fingers from Rufus’s otherwise pristine suit. Before she thinks twice, or even thinks at all, she turns to claim Tseng’s mouth, pouring all the heat Rufus had given her into him.

She makes a note to thank Reno later, in appropriate holiday style.


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