paris/rory – mr and mrs smith AU
- The first time they met, Rory had a high-tech microchip tucked into the band of her bra, her gun in pieces scattered throughout Tver. Paris had enough firepower strapped to her waist to start a small land war (since that was the point.) Most of what Rory remembers is the blue of Paris’ dress, how breathless and warm she had been, laughing over martinis at the bar with the mysterious blonde. Most of what Paris remembers is thinking how she would to miss her window because the brunette kept plying her with drinks and listening to her talk about the political situation in North Africa. Actually listening. It is hard to find people who actually listen to Paris.
- (They both received commendations for their work. Shortly after, Paris got a phone call asking if she had any feelings about Eastern Europe she would care to discuss.)
- “She’s so normal,” Paris told Louise as they left the firing range. “She’s got eyes like a Disney princess, every time she smiles I expect to see little animated bluebirds swarm her. It’s disgusting. I think I love her.”
- “I wouldn’t call her normal,” Rory said to Lane as they applied a thin layer of strychnine to the array of coffee cups. “But she’s–I don’t know, she’s angry and funny and smart, and alive. She’s really alive. I’m tired of everyone I meet being dead all the time.“
“You’re an assassin,” Lane pointed out, setting down another poisoned coffee mug. “It’s in the job description.”
- Rory is a “correspondent” because hey, they’re always being sent to weird places at the last minute, right? Paris is a “surgeon” because it explains the beeper and the bad hours. They get a little white house on a little cute street, and their wedding is a mix of Jewish and Emily Gilmore. Paris hires a very nice pair of actors to play her parents, but she can tell from the way that the Gilmores flock around Rory that they are not. You can’t buy that kind of sincerity.
- That they love Paris, Richard Gilmore shaking her hand and welcoming her to the family, Lorelei trying to hide her tears with increasingly flimsy excuses–Paris can’t breathe with how good it feels, to sink into it, to belong to someone.
- Paris has withstood torture that would break lesser men–that’s not an
exaggeration, it’s something she’s worked very hard to cultivate over
the years. (Doyle, her ex-partner-turned-intelligence-agent, had cracked
after forty-two hours in simulated hostile territory, the weakling.) But all Rory has to do is give her the big doe eyes and Paris would spill pretty much any state secrets.
- Paris always smells like the lavender shampoo she uses and just a hint of something earthy, metallic. Rory would say it’s blood, but that’s ridiculous, why would Paris smell of blood?
- “YOU’RE A WHAT,” Paris shouts as they duck behind the marble island. And fuck this hail of machine gun fire, they just got new countertops–
“I COULD SAY THE SAME THING,” Rory shouts back, reloading with a dangerous sort of efficiency that Paris does not find attractive. Not at all.
“YOU CAN’T EVEN KILL THE RABBITS EATING THE PETUNIAS!” Paris shouts.
“WELL NO ONE IS PAYING ME TO KILL RABBITS NOW ARE THEY?” Rory hurls back.
“UGH,” Paris groans, and ducks above the counter to pick off the remaining men in ski masks as they come through the kitchen door. “WE ARE SO BRINGING THIS UP WITH TERRANCE NEXT SESSION!”