~The Hunter~

Part 1: The Broken Cross​

— February 15, 1944; Windsor Castle; Berkshire, England —

"Majesty!" The orderly skidded into the study, the two guards at his heels spluttering with protests at the intrusion into their master's personal time; and abruptly came to an ungraceful halt before the great desk piled with papers and folders of all sorts, bending at the waist to brace his hands on his knees while he sought to catch his breath. "Majesty," he rasped, "they're entering the town…"

For a moment there was no reply, only the resolute silhouette of the man at the wide, glorious window facing the bloody haze of the sunset in the west. It was almost awe-inspiring how quickly the tides had turned, how efficiently the cities had been singed and the skies stained with innocent blood. But instead of awe, there was only heartbreak. A pair of shoulders lifted and fell with a silent sigh, a body that had once been powerful and proud, one that still hinted at greatness – a greatness that war had worn thin and stress and eaten away like acid. Still, nothing moved; not a word, not a whisper…until…

"Your thoughts?"

Breath hard in his chest, the orderly straightened, his expression drawn with regret for what he knew he had to say. "You know what I think, Your Majesty," his words were quiet, slow, taxed, but the ears receiving them were more receptive to the message now then they had been in nearly three months.

Turning to the small assembly, the tired king raised his grayed head, sharp eyes gray with sorrow, and murmured, "very well. Send for Elizabeth and the girls; we leave within the hour."

Relieved, the orderly bowed to his monarch and answered weakly, "thank you, Sir—"

"Leave me," the king interrupted, tone hard, and the three men backed quickly out of the study to gather the rest of the family, closing the heavy doors behind them with only a brief, fleeting glance behind at the prematurely-aged man staring off at the sunset dyed red to show its horror of the gunfire and slaughter. The sky had never been so red as it was that rainy night, the stormy clouds casting a sickly hue across the face of the great, orb sinking into the horizon, hiding for one more night as if it knew very well what would ensue after its departure. As if the heavens bled for the loss of the life it sheltered to no avail, the English downpour drenched the paved earth in wet, the only contribution it could make. But muddy boots would do little to stop the invading force that had long since surpassed the title of threat.

"How did it come to this?"

Come the morning, the people would find from the mouths of their new overlords that their royal family had abandoned them; having fled from the siege of armed soldiers marching into their cities and towns, running from the deluge of black and khaki uniforms emblazoned with a field of broken crosses. For now, His Majesty George VI heaved another sigh and turned his back on the window of painful truth to face his wife and daughters' fear-whitened faces to lead them to the safety of the Underground. Ushered from the castle by a circle of loyal guards and staff members, the king, queen, and two young princesses managed to slip unnoticed from the confines of Berkshire, making their way in seclusion and secrecy to Liverpool – a place relatively untouched by the severe grip of the army so desperately seeking royal blood – where, for a while, the could be safe.

They would stay hidden for as long at it took for them to regain strength, as long as it took to find a weakness that would allow them to bring their enemy down for good. Until that time, they would watch and wait, wait for the opportune moment to strike.

No matter how many years – how many generations it took, there would be retribution.

— March 28, 2029; Frankfurt, Germany —

The smell of sweat permeated the air, a tang of fear coating the flavor of the spring flowers with its acrid bitterness. It was a herald; a cry of "I am here!" to anyone aware enough to listen. But obviously the prey didn't know that, otherwise the idiot wouldn't have run and left such a clear trail to his hiding place.

Humans sure could be stupid sometimes.

Flicking blood from his glove, he adjusted his grip about the wire wound around his fingers and leapt lightly from his perch to land on the ground about the mediocre pile of corpses. It was all right to leave them, now that their breathing had stopped and their hearts had given out, so he started off after the one he had purposely missed, strolling along the narrow alley as though he owned it, eyes watchful, nostrils flared to follow the scents of perspiration, panic, and the breathless hope of escape. Foolish hope. He had so been looking forward to a chase, and here the victim wasn't cooperating.

The left turn he took brought him to a dead-end; a little niche of wall where the man dressed in his khaki and black had crammed himself like a doll and sat with his sleeve rolled up and a grimy needle clutched in his fist. With a mousey squeak of alarm, the soldier stuck the syringe into the crook of his elbow, pressing the liquid into his veins with a hurried jab, sighing once he had done so to give his pursuer a toothy grin. "Too late, bastard," a bark of hoarse laughter rendered half-berserk with the affect of the substance, "whatever you do, I won't feel it."

When the soldier spat sloppily onto the cement at his feet, he snapped into motion seizing the addict roughly by the collar and jerking him upright. With a quiet song, the threads of wire coiled around the man's bicep, a slice of ease to separate flesh from flesh, and an arm dropped uselessly to the ground. Blood spurted with the beat of the heart, a croaking scream of agony ripping the calm air as he cast his wires out like a spider's web lacing throat, shoulders, and chest.

"Wrong chemical," he said smoothly, "heroin gives illusions; if you wanted painlessness, you should've invested the extra Marks in some morphine. Regardless, no drug can save you now, Fascist Pig." And with a soft tug of his hand he cut through the neck and the chest; severing both the jugular and the heart with nothing but the smallest shift of movement.

When the bubbling coughs of the man's final breaths had ceased, he let go, allowing the new corpse to slide ungracefully to the filthy ground and stepped away. The wires coiled smoothly upon his command, wrapping around his wrists like the hair-fine fingers of a lover, a devoted pet rubbing against the leather of his gloves for attention, purring as it did so. This was nothing new, nor was the wait time, as was usual when he decided to indulge in a chase – not that this one had been very satisfactory. His partner was sure to be dealing with the pile of bodies he had left behind, gathering the flags to tie to the stakes he had crushed into their hearts. After casting an examining glance downward, he could gather that it might be a little more difficult to give the same treatment to this one, as he had split the organ clean in half.

Oh well.

Shrugging delicately, he leant his shoulder against the solid brick of the wall and waited, planting a foot into the hastily-hewn surface and digging in the pocket of his waistcoat for a cigarette. His teeth gripped the tightly-rolled nicotine, fingers fishing in the other pocket for the lighter he kept there, and flicked the tiny orange flame under the end to enflame the substance's calming properties. Though he inhaled deeply enough to take the smoke into the very pits of his lungs, it never affected him the way he wished it would. Whatever it promised to take away, it left behind in cold, empty, guiltless lies, until it came to the point where smoking was really only a habit for the sake of something to do while he waited.

He didn't have to wait long this time. The worm hadn't run very far (unwise, to say the least, though probably inconsequential), so his partner had little ground to cover, and, sure enough, a moment later his ears picked up the sound of footsteps trotting quickly down the winding of the alley.

"Yo!" The voice was sweet and warm, one he was quite accustomed to hearing when on the job, since the petite little female who came into view was, indeed, his partner. The band around the arm of her crisp white shirt was the same as his, the tight blue cloth symbolizing the HUNTER legion that they both served in. She had changed her hair for the second time that hour, though where she had gotten the time was beyond his knowledge, and it was now a vibrant shade of petal pink which shone like a pale blush while she padded forward and leaned over to examine the last of their targets. "Oh good lord, Rafe," she wrinkled her nose at him; "did you have to filet him?"

Rafael shrugged, taking another drag. "It just worked out that way."

She rolled her eyes and held out a gloved hand. "Stake, please." He dropped the metal spike into her palm, and she set to work wrapping one of their scarves around it; a little message to the Führer, not that he didn't already know who was killing off his men night after night. With a soft grunt, she pulled the spliced torso around and drove the stake into the lower half of the dead man's heart, pantomiming dry-retching over her shoulder when the organ squelched nastily underneath the pressure of being impaled. "Blergh…there are days when I wonder why I took this job."

"I know why," he answered, stepping away from the wall and heading toward the mouth of the alley, "to keep me in order."

A soft peal of laughter rang, then an elbow was jabbed into his side as she agreed, "that's right. We all know you'd be hopeless on your own, Rafe."

"Hmm," came the noncommittal grunt, "as you like, liebchen."

"I do wish you'd stop calling me that," she groused, "it simply reeks of sarcasm. Not at all patronizing. Ugh, I need a cup of tea."

They made their way out through the maze of the alleyways, Frankfurt's soft spring glow a lamplight to guide their way. Already they could hear the alarm sirens wailing like banshees, far off behind them in the distant darkness while they strolled along the quiet civilian streets, careful to keep in the shadows to avoid being seen as, strictly speaking, it was against curfew to be out at that hour. A pair of pros, they basked in the afterglow of a finished mission in silence, refraining from the urge to boast as fresh recruits would, often resulting in death. Boasting and getting themselves killed was not appropriate behavior for the best offensive team HUNTER had to offer.

After the sirens had been screaming for over three minutes, fading into background noise once they reached the fenced-in shores of the Rhine, she checked the pocket watch tucked into a hidden pocket of her vest. "Time to check in," she murmured, "where the hell are they?"

"Right here!"

They turned as a unit to watch the approach of the two checkpoint managers, denizens that served as a go-between from HUNTER to the royal guard. The two men were both rather old compared to the team they would be speaking with, both graying and going decrepit in the joints, but they still carried an air of importance as they surveyed the team and came forward to converse. They were familiar by way of face, all the agents were in order to rat out traitors if there was a need, but as far as dealings went, the two pairs had not yet had a chance to interact.

"Agent Weiss," the taller of the two nodded to Rafael, "Agent Churchill," he nodded to her, and she smiled brightly despite the distinctly scandalized glance the other man was directing toward her pink hair. "Success, so we hear?" With a vague gesture, the speaker indicated the muted wailing.

Ruffling her partner's sleek black hair, Agent Churchill offered a proud laugh. "Of course. He did an amazing job, as usual, minus a little filleting."

Rafael didn't answer.

"Right…well," the shorter of the checkpoints cleared his throat, "we have a message for you."

"The next assignment?"

The managers exchanged a brief look. "No, orders to report to Her Majesty in Newcastle as quickly as you can manage."

"The subject's locked?"

"Yes."

The pretty little female nodded. "Shouldn't take us too long, eh, Rafe?"

Raven-haired Rafael let a trail of smoke slip from between his lips to curl upon the soft breeze, crystal blue eyes focused on the shapes it made before dissolving into memory. "Not long," he answered her smoothly, glancing at her while shoving his empty hand into his slacks pocket.

A second look passed between the checkpoint agents, this one distinctly more significant than the one before it. It was a look of trepidation, of wary anxiety borderline on outright fear. Neither of them would say it, but they were terrified – and not of the overhanging threat which gnawed at them all, of being caught and brutally tortured about the rebellion against the Führer. No, what they feared was something much closer to home; the man with iron threads to slice his enemies open and the nerve to do the same with his bare hands had he the need to. Agent Rafael Weiss, demon of the Underground, a killer unlike any other, and standing right in front of their eyes.

It was rare that one got to witness such a thing and being allowed to walk away from it. Except for the Queen herself, Weiss took orders from nothing and no one, and he didn't care how much blood he shed as long as his purpose was served and his tasks carried out. Rare as it was to see him without a healthy coat of blood; it was rarer still to have the knowledge that the man they were seeing was so much more than just a man. They were some of the ones fortunate enough to have that knowledge. Or perhaps not so fortunate…

"Right then," Agent Churchill (absolutely no relation to Winston, thank you very much) offered yet another flashing smile, and headed off for the bridge to cross the river, agenda changed to head instead from their hotel room to Britain. "We'll head off. Come on, love, let's go see about that tea." She held her hand out to her partner, who flicked the smoldering end of his cigarette to the ground, crushing the embers under the heel of his shiny black dress shoe as he strode to catch up with her. A few moments later, they had vanished into the misty gray of the night, silent and swift and deadly; off to see the Queen.

The shorter of the two checkpoints emitted a dry shudder once the two agents had disappeared, rubbing at the Goosebumps trailing up and down his arms as he muttered, "why Her Majesty deems it prudent to employ and entrust things like that is beyond me."

A low laugh of bemused relief. "At least the woman wasn't so bad on the eyes, eh?"

"Speak for yourself; I'm no cradle-robber. And I didn't fancy that hair of hers."

"Don't you know? Victoria Churchill's a master of disguises," the other manager shared, sounding rather incredulous. "Her hair's not really pink, and she doesn't wear glasses, so I hear."

Shaking his head, his partner grimaced, "well, I suppose pink hair's better than a genetically-enhanced freak…you don't think he can still hear us, d'you?"

The first man cast an apprehensive look toward the Rhine, and took a step backward. "Let's just go." The trudging of feet was scuffing and hasty, a grating noise upon the eardrums of the man whose attention turned away from the two quickly departing men.

He was used to the prejudice, but that didn't mean he didn't listen occasionally, just to see if the rumors had changed. Sometimes it amused him to know that the normal humans he worked with were still so skittish; they often forgot that he was not all that different from the rest of them. He was just…gifted. It didn't matter, they still found excuses to dislike him, and he didn't mind. As long as they did their jobs and let him do his, he couldn't care less about what they whispered about him behind their backs. And what they muttered about Victoria – well, she was enough of a woman to handle herself.

With his partner's insistent tugging at his sleeve in the hopes of sidetracking their path just long enough to grab a bite to eat and her precious cup of tea (damn the English and their godforsaken tea), he was forced to pull his attention back to the present, and found that he was hungry. "Fine, fine," he murmured, to which she answered with a happy little half-dance of joy before skittering off to the pub that was open for soldiers' use, throwing a new armband at him for the sake of identity, and messing with her hair as she went. Glancing down at the swastika embroidered into the red fabric, he felt his blood go cold with the icy anger he felt every time he saw it.

She had her reason for doing what she did…and he had his.

 

Part 2: The Color Auburn​

— Three years earlier —

Getting off the train in King's Cross was an experience the likes of which he never wanted to repeat as long as he lived. If anything on earth could be described as a living hell, then a compartment crammed full to bursting with cranky, anxious people and restless children coupled with a platform lined with Nazi soldiers to check passports and papers and luggage more than made up the phrase.

He had never been a very patient man, not when it came to everyday, trivial things, and it seemed the procedures had only increased his quick-tempered tendencies to snap and rile when irritated. It had taken a great deal of willpower not to box the ears of the little boy he'd caught attempting to pick his pockets, and just as much (if not more) inner strength to keep from snarling at the little creature's mother when she came to apologize for her offspring's misdeed. But for all its discomfort and annoyance, the crowded, dilapidated train car had been near to nothing when compared with his reaction to seeing the platform outside the metal compartment.

Ever since the deaths of his parents he could remember hating the Reich. Everything it stood for, everyone who had a kind word to say about it, everyone who took part in it, he loathed more than he could have ever put into words. His non-Arian parents, good, loyal German-born people, struck dead because they had refused to quarter a pair of the Führer's lapdogs. They hadn't felt any guilt for what they'd done because his mother and father had both been dark-haired, though his mother had had the eyes of an Arian, which she'd passed on to him.

He cursed those eyes.

The looks he had spared the Nazis that looked over his travel papers and inspected the meager contents of his bag were seething and black, loathing bleeding from his pores like poison they could neither see or taste. They hadn't noticed, hadn't cared, all they gave him was a disdainful glance and a quick gesture for him to move along out of the way. He had so very much wanted to spit on those prettily-shined boots of theirs, but judging by the expressions on the faces of the guards standing along behind those handling the passengers, they were itching for an excuse to clobber someone. It wasn't out of fear of injury that he ignored the urge and walked away, because he knew very well he could have taken every single one of those soldiers and come out on top, but because he was supposed to be a normal person at that point in time. A normal person just trying to get into London and find their host, family, or landlord just like everyone else.

Speaking of which…hadn't the doctor told him someone was to meet him at the station?

Soft blue eyes flickered from platform to platform, scanning the backs of soldier and disgruntled passenger alike, searching for a sign or something to tell him what to do next. But there was nothing, no one, and no signal. Nothing but the hoarse shout of the British officer snapping at him to move his bloody ass out of the bloody way or face getting horse-whipped. So he gathered his bag, stuffed his papers back into the pocket of his heavy wool coat, pulled the hat down over his face, and headed in the direction the signs indicated lead to the main entrance, deciding that if his keeper wasn't waiting for him there, then he would head straight for the nearest inn and hit the first bed he found – face-first, if at all possible.

It had been just passed the archway leading into the ticket lobby when he had heard her voice for the very first time, light and lilting, crisp with the accent of a native to England's rain and fog-drenched pavement, calling his attention and stopping him right in his tracks. "Herr Weiss, I presume?"

He turned, eyes peering toward the corner from which his name had been called behind a fringe of coal black bangs, and he saw her. She was a small, stocky woman, well-proportioned; just curvy enough to be considered feminine and thin enough to be considered fit, with a sweet, pointed face. Dressed sharply in a dignified trench jacket and form-hugging pencil-skirt, he was reminded not only of poise and etiquette but a no-nonsense attitude. Probably every inch a prude, but he couldn't quite deny that his interest was sparked enough to take in the soft line of her waist and the silk stockings leading to feet encased in sleek black heels. Quite a lovely little thing.

As a soldier, he couldn't think of her as anything but a distraction and a hindrance. If she was enough to make him pause, it was too much to be functional. But as a man, he had to admire her, standing so coolly while alone and vulnerable in a train station surrounded by soldiers who probably hadn't had a woman's taste on their tongues in a considerable amount of time; and she was quite good-looking, especially with that crooked, red-lipped smile. If it hadn't been for the clever edge to her eye, he might have thought her foolish to linger there the way she did, among all those men…but so far she didn't seem to have been put in any compromising position. Therefore, she was either especially good at keeping hidden in the shadows, or she had enough standing to keep them off her back. With a smooth recollection of manners, he lifted a hand to his hat, smartly touching the brim and murmuring, "May I help you, Fräulein?"

She held out a hand to him, still smiling with a bright, intelligent glow about her face and tightly-coiled auburn hair (soft brown with the luster of deep red), and greeted, "I'm from the agency that asked you to come here."

"Ah." Well, what a welcome, indeed. "Of course." He took the offered hand and found himself faintly surprised by the firmness to her handshake despite the dainty structure of her fingers. A single black eyebrow lifted. "I assume they want me to get started right away, then?"

"No, no," the female shook her head, doe brown eyes twinkling slightly with mischief, "you don't actually start until next week. For now we just want to get you settled with us, your duties, all that formal business, and see where that gets us. Oh, and about your partner—"

"Entschuldigung," he interrupted, eyes narrowing, "what do you mean, partner? I work alone."

A wry edge entered her smile, her expression hardening somewhat before she began to walk, passing him neatly with just a brush of her hand to his pocket, slipping an envelope into the wool compartment alongside his passport. "Not anymore, you don't. And I expect to be treated with a little more respect than partner in the future, as we'll be seeing quite a lot of one another."

Though he knew it was rude, at the moment, all he could do was stare at her retreating back. "You?" He snapped when he remembered how his lungs worked. "You must be joking." Surely she was…this was all just a practical joke and he was really to be working as he was accustomed to, solo, without some fragile little girl to look after. Watching her pinstripe-swathed figure and prompt, delicate steps in stiletto heels, he was absolutely, downright certain that there was no way this could be real.

A soft breath of laughter while she beckoned him to follow. "No joke. It's all in the letter; now do hurry up, won't you? It's nearly tea time."

…or not.

Left with little choice but to follow her, he walked along behind the little female's brisk step as she navigated them both toward the nearest pub where she could get her tea and purchase a good beer for him, for which he would probably be eternally grateful. She sat him in one of the corner booths nearest the wall, settled so they could watch the entire span of the scrubbed, dusky room and its occupants (a move that was definitely a trained one), and dug into her tea with the relish of any drunkard. After this two-minute long interlude, he was definitely starting to think that maybe this little secretary was not at all as prudish as he had intentionally taken her to be.

After taking a thorough, sweeping study of his surroundings, he lifted the cold glass of the beer bottle to his lips and took a generous swig. Over the length of brown glass he could see the contemplative look the woman was giving him through the steam rising from her tea, her brown eyes both inquisitive and appraising. He lifted an eyebrow at her.

"The letter, Herr Weiss," she said smoothly, waving her hand at him in a gesture almost shooing in nature.

Complying instantly, he pulled the white envelope from his pocket and turned it over to find himself met with the bright red seal of the British Crown. Though he supposed it was to be expected, considering that he was now in the service of Her Majesty, but it frankly surprised him to see the letter handwritten on the Queen's own stationary. Hadn't Queen Anne much more important things on her mind than the recruiting of a single new HUNTER? Perhaps, or perhaps he was just one of the lucky few. Or perhaps she was just exceptionally interested in her special agency of soldiers, as her father had never been.

Well, look where disinterest had landed Prince Charles. The graveyard was probably downright thrilled.

In basic terms, the letter's contents were as much welcome and greeting as they were instruction. The Queen expressed wishes that he was doing well after his final few procedures, a declaration of sincere and enthusiastic thanks for his offer of support to their cause, and bid him follow any request or order given to him by "Agent Churchill." She was not only to be his partner during the span of his duties – his contact to the rest of HUNTER, provider of tools and miscellaneous small services and talents, and to serve as physical backup – but she would be explaining how their systems worked. Not much else was given before Her Majesty wished him well and wrote that she hoped to soon meet him in person, and shortly he was refolding the letter, shifting slightly, and tossing it and the envelope into the crackling hearth fire.

Turning to his fellow agent, he inquired coolly, "Churchill? Any relation to—?"

"No." She cut him off as if she had half expected the question, but her tone was rather stiff, addressing an old, repeated explanation that she was not only weary of, but had disliked to begin with. "No. You can call me Victoria."

"Rafael," he returned with a nod, indulging in another swallow of beer. It was a generic brand, certainly not the finest, but judging by the look of the pub, he didn't expect to ever find anything better within the entire building. That and the alcohol content was sufficient enough to make up for the quality.

Her smile seemed to soften then, her eyes warming when she murmured, "really? What a beautiful name."

"Danke schön," his voice lowered, gaze having shifted to focus on the bottle cradled in his hand, "my mother was something of a romantic."

"I see; named for the angel?" He nodded. "Catholic?"

"Lutheran."

She beamed, "oh, good! We like Protestants here." A soft peal of laughter burst from her throat, short, if rather enthusiastic, but when he didn't join in, she quieted and whispered, "sorry, joke."

"I got it," he told her from between pursed lips. Dear god, they expected him to work with this?

Victoria shrugged, crossing her legs primly at the knees and leaning in over the table, the expression on her face warm and pleasant. When once upon a time ago he would have found that to send a somewhat disconcerting message while on professional business, he could recognize it now for what it was – camouflage. She was taking steps to draw any attention away from them, to dodge any suspicious Nazis who could happen in at any given time, by acting like they were a couple. In addition to this, she had strategically placed him so he faced the door she had her back to, which gave him the responsibility of letting her know if anyone of questionable nature had entered the pub. The significance; she was offering him some sense of control over the situation. Damn. Churchill, one; Weiss, zero.

"You have some questions, I'd imagine?"

Just how she managed to look so flirtatious and keep her voice so neutral, he would probably never know. Bracing one elbow against the surface of the table, he leaned forward as well, keeping his face impeccably straight and wiped clean as he usually tried to (expressive was not one of his personal traits). "I think I have most of it placed. I know what I'm here to do; I just need to know the specific details on procedure. This isn't quite the pinch-hitting I'm used to."

She traced the edge of her cup with the tip of one finger, her eyes on his face as she answered, "to be honest, it probably won't be that much different. Most of our assassins are trained Underground upon selection and approval, but some are absorbed in other ways. Obviously you don't need any more training or conditioning, you know your way around the killing fields, you're already approved for efficiency and accuracy, so nothing's really going to change."

"What were you, trained or absorbed?"

Her smile flashed back into life, crooked and sly. "The latter," she replied with a tinge of mischief to the tone, and sent him a wink. "In certain cases the Hawks don't even bother to leash us – which means that as long as we get our jobs done in the time they set us with and don't get caught, they don't care how we go about it. So, in short; when we're offered a new assignment we're given the target, the when, and roughly the where…because people wander and schedules change, and whatnot. We have the choice to accept or refuse, unless there are other factors that give them reason to believe we're the only ones fit for it, they provide whatever tools they anticipate us needing, and they let us off." She took a sip of tea. "Am I boring you yet?"

The front door opened with a jangle of little brass bells and he glanced up, only to divert his attention back to her when he saw no sign of trouble – watching out of the corner of his eye as the man hunched over to the bar and slouched down atop a stool, slapping a few dirty Pounds onto the counter for his drink. "About how long are we given to complete each assignment?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, it varies," she lifted a hand to her hair, removing the pins to send it dropping in loose waves to brush her shoulders. "Depending on the job, it could be anywhere from a few days to a week; there are some investigation-jobs that can take months before the target's killed, so we know if there's any information we can squeeze out of them before they croak. Some are even as quick as a few hours; little one-day flings."

"And," he paused, "what exactly is your role?"

The look she gave him was distinctly shrewd. "Did you read the letter at all?" With a huffy sigh she shook her head, "never mind. I'm something between your liaison and your glorified assistant; I arrange our meetings, make sure we get to checkpoints on time, make arrangements for hotels or hiding places, and make sure you get whatever you need to efficiently crack skulls."

An even longer pause, before he repeated delicately, "…crack skulls?"

"Mhm." The scarlet of her lipstick outlined small white teeth when she offered a grin. "I used to do solo work myself, you know. But I gave it up to take this partnership just for you! Don't you feel special?" Brown eyes glanced at the clock at the wall above his head and she tapped an annoyed fingernails against the table. "Bugger. Time to go; almost time for midday curfew." Standing with a graceful slide of pinstriped fabric, she stepped away from the table with a light hop (quite a feat in those heels), and said, "let's go haunt an inn! I'm sure you could use some sleep, eh?"

He followed her, draining the rest of his beer and hoisting his bag over his shoulder while she tapped along to wave cheerfully at the bartender, who offered her a toothy smile in return. Though she seemed to be connected enough, he was still rather unconvinced. Rafael forced himself to be content until he could speak with the HUNTER recruiters, trailing along behind his fiery little temporary warden while nearly boiling in misgivings about being stuck with a damsel sure to be in constant distress for his partner. Because he just couldn't for the life of him see what use she could possibly be. But, as he would find later, all those misgivings left once he caught a glimpse of the way Victoria handled a gun. Not to mention all her other little hidden talents.

— Present Time; One week passed —

The jaunt from Frankfurt to Newcastle was a considerably dull one; they'd had to take a boat, the only form of transportation Victoria had been able to wrestle tickets for. In fact, Rafael was fairly certain she'd had to threaten the ticket agent with disembowelment to make the man fork them over, and he'd been quite happy to lurk around in the background looking menacing. He'd found that he was quite accomplished at looking scary. While the boiler room of a cargo ship hadn't been the worst travel arrangement they had ever undertaken, it was far from the best as well…and more boring than either of them cared to think about. The majority of their time had been spent fixing up their forgery papers and poking through the cargo holds they had snuck into for a bit of adventure. Scratch that, it had been Victoria doing most of the activity. Rafael had spent almost all of his time sleeping.

So, a week later, in dour spirits and in desperate need of baths and some decent food, they trudged from the boat into the English port – brandishing travel papers and staggering on wobbly sea-legs as they went. For once in her life, Victoria seemed more driven by her desire for cleanliness than her addiction to tea, and drug her partner relentlessly through the squalor of a typically paranoid town to one of the numerous entrances to the Underground. Seasoned as they were, there shouldn't have been any problems – all but one, which was the rather hurried nature of their arrival; and there was a chance that the door-guards on duty might not be expecting them. Under any other circumstances, it wouldn't have been a problem. However, considering what was at stake were any spies allowed to pass, those sent to watch the doors were encouraged to be rather rough with unexpected guests.

Translation – they didn't ask questions, they went for the jugular. Then, once you were dead, they looked to see whose blood they'd be scrubbing from their shirtsleeves.

Quite simple, really.

It was with extreme caution that they proceeded through the catacomb-like sewer trails of the Underground's internal pathways, careful to make as much noise as could be considered uncaring and casual (for no spy would ever wish to be heard), and Victoria took it upon herself to chat idly away about whatever came into her head. The conversation was purely one-sided, as Rafael's position in cases like these was to keep an eye out for those enthusiastic guardians and to prevent either side from killing each other. They'd worked out quite an efficient system over the three years they had worked as a unit. While Victoria rattled away about Italian cheeses and the right way to knit a good pair of socks, he kept a sharp eye to the shadowy niches that lined the subterranean alleys, regularly checking both behind and above as he went.

Yet it was during one of these dutiful turns to check the rear that he was caught, and Victoria's sudden shriek of alarmed surprise caused him to whip around like he'd been burned, fingers full of wire ready to be cast out to trap and or mutilate whatever had attacked his partner. But when he gathered focus on the subject, Victoria was pulling out of the grip of a laughing male, her face clouded with the miffed expression of one feigning anger and delivering a sharp smack to the man's chest. "Brent, you bloody idiot! Do you want to die a painful, premature death?"

"Aw, come on, Tori—"

"I've half a mind to let Rafe slice you to ribbons just to make me happy," she groused, slapping away the hand that the slim young blond extended as a gesture of peace.

The man smiled at her, a suavely placating air to the way he grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her forward. "That wouldn't really make you happy," he crooned, and bent slightly to kiss her, completely ignoring the presence of the one left to observe.

Indifferent, Rafael strode calmly passed to allow the pair their privacy, just lingering long enough to call back, "five minutes Victoria," before rounding the bend and heading for the heavy iron doorway that loomed just ahead. He didn't care who she decided to spend her time with, it was neither his business nor in his interest; but he didn't especially care to hang around while she warmed up to another man. Romance had never seemed very important to him, and, personally, he hadn't really deemed it a good time to change that sentiment, yet he could understand and respect that his workmate felt differently. She was passionate by nature, cheery and energetic, and often quite affectionate, even to him.

Even after three years of her praise and petting, he was always somewhat taken aback by her insistence on treating him like a good friend; offering endearments and ruffling his hair, half a mother hen and half a little sister. He was always so cold, to her and to everyone else, and even when he found a playful enough mood to return her banter, it was always halfheartedly bitter. Still, she continued to pester and chat at him, dragging him around like a doll to his appointments and checkpoints, making sure he was supplied with everything he could have possibly needed – and some things he didn't need, but certainly enjoyed (a good beer every once in a while, for example). But for all her spark and energy and quite sharp amount of common sense, she did have the worst taste in men.

Why she always had to pick the ones that hurt her in the end, he couldn't understand. Perhaps it was just a magnetic draw she had about her, or perhaps she was just insecure enough to miss those who would have shown interest had she been free long enough and if they hadn't been so shy. Either way, Victoria's beaus never failed to strike a bad chord…only after she'd already lost half her heart to them. It was never a problem with her work, she was excellently managed in keeping business and personal life separate, but he was always on the lookout just in case. That's what partners did. She watched his back, he watched hers. And that included listening in when the sharp, flat noise of an impact struck his ears.

"Didn't I tell you it's over?" Victoria was obviously not happy, but for some reason, she didn't seem quite as sad as she usually did around this time. Brent Dodson must have really hit her nerves just the right way to piss her off more than he'd hurt her.

"I said I was sorry, and I meant it. What more do you want?"

She laughed, cold and hard, "how about an assurance that you'll never sneak off with Christine again? But you can't really do that, can you? Don't tell me you're sorry when you're not."

Rafael's hearing pricked, sharpening upon internal, subconscious command when he heard her footsteps toward his abruptly halt, the clasp of fingers jerking back on wrist bones a soft brush of sound to sensitive ears. The tone Brent used with her left a sour note upon the air, vengeful and ripe with disgust. "Oh, so it's ok for you to go off with him, but I can't do the same thing?"

"What do you mean; him?" Victoria snapped, annoyed, "if the fact that I have a work partner bothered you, you should have said so in the first place!"

"Work partner my ass! I'm not stupid enough to lie down for that."

"Brent, what the hell are you—?"

The male's voice was bordered on hysterics, a hushed whisper that hissed between his teeth like a curse. "How can you stand to touch that…even stand to be in the same room with him? He's not even human—"

"That's enough!" She jerked away from him, the pull of her hand rough against his grip, reminding him just how much of a delicate girl she wasn't. "I am sick of hearing you talk like that. I took this position specifically to work with Agent Weiss. The CELL project is the future, Brent – it has nothing to do with how pretty he is! I shouldn't even have to tell you that our relationship is strictly business only."

"Even so, he's German, Tori—"

"Big fucking deal!" He heard her throw her hands up, the volume of her shriek almost painful to listen to. "So what, he was born German so that makes him a Nazi spy, or something? Not all Germans are Nazis, and not all Nazis are German! So you keep your mouth off my partner, and keep the hell away from me." Her footsteps clicked against the cement, turning and walking away from the confrontation, the steps sharp and jerky, not with quite the same piercing tone as when she wore heels, for the flatness of the suit-like dress shoes quelled some of the impact, but he could hear in her walk and in the way her breathing had stiffened that she was angry. She was also trying hard to calm it down.

It had been made quite clear to him from working with her that Victoria knew very well he was not like other men. From the time of his accident in '24 up to the month before meeting her for the first time he had been in the Underground labs in Niedersachsen, almost literally being brought back to life after the failure of his heart and brain. The doctors had spared no expense when dealing with their prototype, their pilot operations for their brainchild of fine-tuned chemical and surgical tweaking to create a semi-superhuman warrior for their cause. The CELL project, as they called it, had started development long before his birth, but he had been the first successful receiver. What was more, they hadn't even had to wipe his memory. He could remember everything about his life up until the accident and scattered, hazy memories of the last few surgeries. Apart from the knowledge, there was nothing to tell that he had ever been hurt at all.

He wasn't the man he had been. He wasn't normal. The whispers of the humans around him – those who knew what he was – were spot on. Equipped with enhanced sensory gifts, hyper speed and agility, balance, aim, and a strangely fast recovery and healing time, his body was no longer the one he had been born with. He wasn't like the people that served HUNTER, and so far, he was the only one out of place. CELL hadn't managed to produce any subjects after him.

But this was a new thread to the loom; Victoria had actually sought to work with him? He'd always assumed she had been pulled from her previous duties to offset him, due to personality or simply her way of being able to take charge so efficiently, but apparently this wasn't true. She'd made no secret about knowing what he was; she made references to it all the time – most often when pleading with him to use his boosted strength to crack open particularly stubborn jars. It was inconsequential, really; knowing this didn't change anything, neither did knowing that she was embarrassed because she had a hunch that he'd heard every word that passed between her and her ex boyfriend. She probably didn't find it very flattering for him to know she had defended him when she'd had no need to. He understood, though…that's just what partners did. You came to view your partner as your right arm, a support and a weapon, and (if it came to that) a charge.

He shrugged away from the hard cement wall when she came into view, inquiring, "ready?"

The grateful smile that lifted the corners of her lips was sweetly relieved, and she reached up to gently tug at a lock of his hair before answering, "sure thing, love." He pulled open the heavy metal door for her, habit by now, and she stepped through, patting anxiously at her collar and the short-cropped mess of spikes and ruffle that was her own hair. "I think I should change it…somehow I don't think neon blue is very appropriate."

"I doubt Her Majesty will mind," he told her absently, strolling along beside her with his hands tucked in his pockets, "you know how amused she is by your color preferences."

Her snort of dismay collided with a half-shamed giggle, and he had to pause while she nearly split in two for laughing hard enough to burst. When she'd gathered some semblance of order again and blinked up at him with watering eyes, he tilted his head in the direction they both knew led to the Queen's audience room, and said, "come along, liebchen. You dally all day and we'll never make it."

She punched him good-naturally in the shoulder, scoffing, "I'm not the one who can't make it to one meeting on time to save my life."

Without answer, he flashed his armband at the hall guard, who nodded approval and waved them ahead.

"And I do not dally!"

Translations
Herr - honorific for a male, used here to mean "Mr."
Fräulein - honorific for a young, unmarried female, used here to mean "Miss."
Entschuldigung - quite literally "excuse me"
Danke schön - a specially formal version of "thank you"
Liebchen - "little love," roughly used to mean "sweetheart" or "honey" in an affectionate manner. it's most often used sarcastically here.

 

Part 3: Analyze​

While it wasn't quite the throne room of Buckingham Palace, the visiting chamber used by the Queen when receiving guests and reports was not nearly as lacking in finery as it had once been, long ago. With thanks to the handful of professional thieves used frustrate the Führer and his people by snatching food and supplies out from under their upturned noses, the walls were draped with curtains of fine silk and velvet as though the room were lined with windows, scattered with a tasteful array of original oil paintings from the seventeenth century that had been salvaged from a burning pile. The chairs and delicate tea table were English oak inlaid with exquisitely-carved slices of pine and hickory, the wooden legs and frames chipped and molded with knife and chisel to resemble vines full of roses.

Even the lighting seemed less harsh here than in the rest of the Underground, less synthetic, less yellow. Perhaps that was due to the clear white scarves that had been lightly wrapped to filter the bulbs at the source, or perhaps it was simply because of what dwelled there. The Queen was no saint, she was no angel, nor was she as exalted as a figurehead of beauty and grace as her grandmother had been; but her presence still seemed to offer a breath of something fresh and tasteful.

The room itself was rather long and narrow, enough like an audience chamber to suit its purpose, and the two HUNTERS had to walk for a while before they got a clear view of their commander from where she was half-hidden by the gathering of advisors and guards that swarmed like crows around her shoulders and back, pouring over the papers spread across the almost spindly table. Very like her grandmother had been, Queen Anne of Wales was fair-haired and clear-eyed; strong-willed and sharp-tongued, but she was physically a very delicate creature. Since her parents' deaths shortly after her seventeenth birthday, she had been ruling her hidden kingdom with a much-needed firm hand, and now that she was barely twenty-one years old, she had been issuing more and more orders for her special-forces and military to rid the world of the regime that had driven her family into hiding.

She looked up when the two agents approached; her smile welcoming and fond when they stopped to kneel respectfully before her chair. Strictly speaking, the royal house wasn't supposed to have favorites…but regardless, these were hers. Black and white, they fit together so well that it was almost painful what a beautiful pair they made; not just in looks or in the efficiency they both carried out their assignments, but just in the way they interacted with her. First there was Churchill, with her chipper attitude and frankness and her outrageous penchant for having a different hair color at least twice a day – then there was Weiss, with his cool, calm vibes and his soft-spoken rough-velvet manner. There had probably never been a better team of HUNTERS in history, and there probably would never be another one like them. While waving the mess of advisors away with an impatient hand, she spoke, "good afternoon, Agents. I'm sorry you haven't had much time to yourselves after your last success, but time was pressing."

"No problem, Your Majesty," Victoria chirped, saluting cheerily and drawing a mortified choke from the older advisors. "We're always ready for a new job."

Expression rather amused as she took in the violent shade of blue that colored her agent's hair, the Queen motioned for them to stand before folding her hands in her lap. The fine brocade of her dress shone with a subtle luster under the clear light when she shifted in her seat, her voice slightly subdued as she quietly asked her entourage to step back. This was not unusual, most of the assignments given directly by the Queen were kept with a certain level of confidentiality, and when the small mob of people drew away to the point out of earshot, Anne's voice was less frigid as she addressed her two finest soldiers. "I know that you've been working together for the past three years, and we hadn't planned on splitting you up – we'd like you to stay a unit, anyway – but this job is two-sided, and we need you both."

"You're separating us?"

Victoria glanced at her partner, slightly surprised that he had spoken. He rarely ever raised his voice around the Queen, let alone when he hadn't been addressed directly first.

But Anne shook her head, her face lined with a grimace, "heavens, no! At least, not the way you mean." She reached toward the table and lifted a sheet of paper and two photographs that had lain in patient wait for her attention, showing the two agents and murmuring, "we've found a way to snag top officers—two at once. Obergruppenführers Jacques Leveque and Kurt Böhme," she held out the photographs, one for each of them, which they took and studied, taking the both facial features and uniform details.

The two officers were not unknown to either agent. Both were senior group leaders, men that had been elevated to ranks overseeing individual fifths of the entirety of the Nazi army. More than simply soldiers, they were more like peacocks dressed in fancy suits, traipsing around as though they owned the world and preening like the glorified lapdogs they were. Böhme was nothing but a war-monger, relishing death and blood like the fine food he gorged on so often, a man who had been in office since the heir of original Führer's reign. Leveque, on the other hand, was a schemer. A relatively young man in his thirties, he was the highest-ranking Nazi of non-German heritage, and he was pushing for the formation of a human-slavery system.

Rafael's lip twitched when he examined the photo held between his fingers, somewhere between curling in disgust and lifting into a cold smile. "You want us to kill them both…separately?"

"Yes. You've each been given the image of the target I want you to pursue. The reason for splitting you up is due to their proximity to each other as well as their reputations; we can't have one hearing about the death of the other and heightening their awareness and security." The Queen's wry smile faded, and she glanced between each of the two people standing before her. "Most of your routine will stay the same. I'm sending you to Berlin, we made reservations at a hotel there for you under a new false name, and when you're both done I want you to stay there until I send someone for you when we feel it's safe for travel again." Her dark eyes settled on Rafael. "Agent Weiss, I'm sending you after Böhme. He's bound to have himself surrounded by bodyguards, so watch your step. We located a date and time for reservations he has at a restaurant in the city, but you'll have to wait until he leaves before moving in. See if you can pull anything from him before you stake him?"

Crystal blue eyes met the Queen's, the pale irises streaked with the light curtain of Rafael's black bangs when he inclined his head to indicate he understood.

"Agent Churchill," she turned to Victoria, who looked up with a calm quirk of a smile, "I'm sending you to Leveque's apartments across the town, near the Red Light District." For a moment Anne paused during her instruction, her gaze mildly questioning as she observed her HUNTER's face. "I suppose you know why."

The blue-haired agent nodded and patted the photo in a reassuring manner. "I've done plenty of seduction missions before, M'lady. This one shouldn't be much different, knowing Leveque the Rake." She laughed softly, a gentle tinkling of belled sound, "it's just been a little while." Rafael shot her a look that couldn't be read, his eyes sliding from her face to focus on the picture she held loosely in one hand.

A nod returned. "Very well, then. I want you to probe him, though. Anything he has, squeeze it out of him, then make sure he never breathes again." With a soft, nearly silent sigh, the Queen handed the piece of white paper to Victoria and said, "all the other details are there. We need you to leave for Berlin tomorrow morning, if you can." Suddenly she smiled; the curve to her lips both affectionate and proud. "The best of luck to you both, my HUNTERS." Taking the signal to leave, the two assassins both gave the monarch a low bow, and turned back toward the door. "Oh, and make sure you see Wendell on your way!" she called after them, "he has something for both of you."

Once outside the audience room, leaving Her Majesty to her war council, the two agents headed for the armory. It was only called the armory for a nod to the past, for though those that worked there did create and supply weapons, they also managed items of a subtler, more sensitive nature. The aging, paternal figure who ruled over the weapons-masters was a tall, thin, and an almost comical mix of a butler and a priest. This was Wendell; the man who was in charge of making sure the people of HUNTER had the very best tools at their disposal, and something of an adopted father to each of the special-services agents.

"Ah, Miss Victoria, Master Rafael," he greeted when the team of two stepped through his study door, getting up from the heavy desk littered with sketches, designs, material lists, and (surprisingly enough) balls of colored twine.

"How are you, Wendell?" Victoria asked as she pranced forward to hug the older man, the smile she sent him so bright that it probably could have shone.

Chuckling, the olds arms-man returned her embrace, patting her head lightly and answered with, "well enough, well enough. We heard the last mission was a record, congratulations," he sent a wise smile to Rafael, who replied with a soft expression of thanks. "So then, you need some time to recuperate for tomorrow, some rest and food, I won't keep you long." Rummaging around in his slacks pocket, he withdrew a small glass vial and held it up for Victoria to see. "This, my dear, is for you."

Taking it gently, she rolled the material around in her palm, looking at the clear liquid that sloshed around between glass and cork. "What is it?"

"An odorless, tasteless solution that induces paralysis." The stern, gray-haired man looked rather unhappy then, frowning and adjusting his glasses with a firm cough. "When I heard about the nature of your half of the assignment, I thought it would be prudent to fix you something a little more useful than an updated revolver, as much as I know how you adore getting your gun refurbished. Simply, apply a few drops to your skin – wherever he's most likely to put his mouth – and when contact is made, the man in question will find himself unable to move within a few seconds of initial intake."

Judging from Victoria's expression, it seemed that she might laugh, but instead she raised an eyebrow. "Wendell, I'm no newbie, y'know. I know how to handle a few frisky gentlemen."

Looking delicately displeased, the man sighed. "As I'm well aware, Miss Victoria, but never with the likes of Jaques Leveque. I would feel better if you carried this with you, nonetheless." He softly touched her cheek, and Rafael was distinctly reminded of a father faced with sending his daughter on her first date, paranoid about the boy's intentions.

Personally, Rafael wasn't worried about his partner. He knew better than most that Victoria was quite capable of taking care of herself. She had a way of taking on almost any challenge she was set with and coming out on top, no matter how questionable the odds looked; and he was fairly certain this wouldn't be any different. Besides, apparently this wasn't the first mission of this caliber she had taken. Of course, he didn't resent Wendell for fussing; he'd heard about the relationship between the arms-man and his fellow agent, the adoption papers were still being processed, but by all rights the man was as good as her father already. Wendell was bound to worry, and Victoria was being extremely patient with him. Usually she wouldn't have put up with anything that even remotely seemed to question her capabilities, so it was a mark of just how much she loved the old researcher that she refrained from biting his head off.

Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed the hollowed cheek and tucked the vial into her waistcoat pocket. "All right then. Thanks, Wendell." With a hop-skip and a light patter of feet, she danced to the door and pirouetted back to wave at the two males, "I'm off to grab dinner and a bath. So goodnight! And I'll see you," she thrust a finger at Rafael, "in the morning. Six o'clock. Don't be late, or I'll throw water on you like I did last summer."

He remembered that. He'd nearly killed her out of startled surprise, and all she'd done was alternate between laughing herself into convulsions and treating him to a lecture about sleeping in. Bothersome woman.

"Goodnight, Miss Victoria," Wendell bid her, the crows feet at the corners of his eyes deepening when he smiled at her.

"Goodnight," Rafael echoed; half because he knew he'd get a look if he didn't.

When she'd departed, humming quietly as she skipped off toward the mess hall, Wendell let out a soft chuckle and said, "your turn Master Rafael." The older man turned toward his desk and reached over to open one of the drawers and lift out two small parcels wrapped in soft, caramel-colored cloth. Holding out the smaller parcel for Rafael to take, he mused, "we've been studying your wiring techniques and believe we've updated the material in a much more efficient way."

Unwrapping the cloth, Rafael's blue eyes settled on two neatly coiled lengths of wire; the same titanium-wound threads that he used for cutting and tying, the silvery sheen cold and sleek as he touched a bare fingertip and traced the arc of one coil. He felt no pain, but when he drew his hand away, a thin trickle of blood slid along the underside of his finger, stemming from a razor-thin slice in his flesh.

"Thinner, lighter, longer, and much sharper," Wendell explained approvingly, "this pair will be able to keep up with your speed." Watching as Rafael slid the lengthened coils of metal wire over his wrists; the older man lifted and unwrapped the second parcel, unveiling a smooth, night-black automatic pistol.

The CELL assassin froze, giving the gun a blank look. "I don't use guns," he murmured, "that's Victoria's weapon."

Insistently, the arms-man pressed the gun and its holster into the younger man's palm. "I doubt you'll ever need it but…" he shrugged, "just in case."

Though Rafael hesitated for a long moment, his fingers eventually closed around the offered contraption of metal and slid it into his coat pocket. It wasn't that he couldn't use a gun – he had learned young to figure out the uses and methods of anything that could be used as a weapon – but he generally just didn't like the feel of them. They weren't as smooth as a knife could be, and the harsh backfire and splatter of a bullet had nothing on his wires, but because he respected both the man and the advice, he accepted. "Thank you," he said smoothly, and turned to the door, quite ready for a bath and a good ten hours of sleep, but Wendell called him back before he reached the threshold.

"Master Rafael, one more thing—" The dark-haired killer glanced over his shoulder to see the aged weaponsmith's expression turn to something close to pleading. "The serum…please, make sure she uses it?"

Pausing, Rafael checked his steps and stopped to give a deeper stare. Was the man hinting that he babysit Victoria? Surely Wendell knew that he was probably the very last person she would take that kind of an order from. Was this one last bit of fatherly concern being pressed upon him? And if so – why on earth give it to him? Yes, he was Victoria's partner, but this seemed more like a request to give to a suitor, a plea to use a condom, something of the like. But out of courtesy, he would try to get Victoria to use the chemical. It was probably in her best interest anyway, and as her partner, it was partly his job to look out for her safety as well as his own. "I'll do what I can," he replied, and the older man nodded.

"I can't ask for anything more." A sigh, "good luck to you."

"Thank you, Sir." And he gracefully departed for his room, heading straight for the shower and turning the water as hot as it would go to melt the grime from his skin and hair. The soap frothed white and clean against the dirt streaking his arms and chest, but while usually bathing was always a thoughtless, habitual activity, for some reason he couldn't seem to calm his mind.

Why was he so restless?

 

Part 4: Mission Imperative​

— The Next Evening —

For once, the plane ride had gone smoothly. Under the crafted aliases of Wilhelm and Else Schneider, a "loyal" German couple having returned from vacationing in America, the two agents were seated in first class seats – a rare treat which allowed them to devote the entire two-hour flight to sleeping. Since it was more than likely they would be up all night, the time to catch up on a little extra rest was something of a necessity. Any weariness or sluggish side-effects from being tired on the job was nothing less than a hazard courting death, or worse – capture; and because they both took their jobs as seriously as they did, the Dramamine Rafael had swiped from the druggist's came in handy, knocking them right out to ensure a solid two hours of unconsciousness. Yet even with the extra sleep tucked under their belts, neither of them was quite prepared for the shock of seeing the hotel they were supposed to stay in.

Mainly to avoid publicity and suspicion that had any possibility of linking them to suspicious deaths, HUNTER normally sent their agents to inns and apartments with low-profiles and often dingy backgrounds. But the impressive sandstone and marble hotel stretching up to the sky in front of which the taxi deposited them was not at all what they were accustomed to – for the Chateau Noir, so named for the French restaurant it housed, was one of the most high-class places they could have stayed. Rafael actually had to drag Victoria inside because she had simply stood gaping for so long. Despite the surprise, however, neither of them was in any mood to complain about the finery of their quaint, cozy room; not the widescreen TV, the Egyptian cotton sheets draping the queen-size bed, or the 200 Mark bottle of wine chilling in the tiny refrigerator sitting next to the coffee maker on the bathroom counter.

Yet enjoyment was not on the agenda for the evening. Almost immediately upon entering the room they switched gears into preparations, ordering something for dinner, eating in silence, and splitting to their own pre-assignment rituals. Carrying her bag into the bathroom, Victoria occupied herself by adopting her chosen disguise for the night, and Rafael swiftly stripped from casual clothing into his uniform – if it could be called a uniform. Though he had switched to a black dress shirt in place of the customary white one, the black slacks, waistcoat, satin tie, shoes, and supple leather gloves were identical to those he always donned when his objective was a killing. With a three-hour grace-period in mind, the majority of which he would need to stay hidden, he deemed it appropriate to make it as easy to melt into the shadows as was possible.

Tucking the gloves into his back pocket, he sat, knee bent, at the edge of the bed to fuss with exchanging his old set of wires for the new ones. He had to credit Wendell for his mastered craftsmanship; the new lengths of shiny metal thread were truly twin works of art, like woven strands of quicksilver, moonlight made solid and hard like diamond, yet flexible and fluid as spider-spin. He was extra careful to avoid cutting himself when unfurling the two threads from their packaging because it certainly wouldn't do to reek of blood before he'd gone hunting. Afterwards, he didn't care so much. Hell, he'd gone hours soaked up to the shoulders in red before. Life fluid had never bothered him.

"What d'you think?"

He was coiling the wire around his wrists when Victoria emerged from the bathroom, her hair having magically transformed from honey blond to her favorite shade of rose-petal pink, a color he found himself comparing to a girl's first blush. She spun casually for him, and his blue eyes scanned the secretary-worthy outfit she'd donned without question, knowing it was what she wanted. White button-down shirt, three-quarter sleeves, sleek black knee-length pencil skirt, soft dark stockings, black stiletto heels. She looked like she was heading to a day-job…at least until he took a closer look. It was only in little touches, but there were pieces to her attire that were definitely not innocent enough for a simple, nicely-dressed librarian.

She leaned her shoulder against the corner wall, striking a flaunting, playfully seductive pose and flashing all the proof he needed in the front of her shirt and the side of her skirt. Clever…she'd left the buttons undone down to the layer of lace edging her bra, black and taunting against the soft cream of her skin, and a matching peek of lace hemming those stockings lined slice of her thigh through the slit in the skirt seam, allowing just a glimpse of a single satin garter. Clever indeed; deceptively naïve enough to fool someone who didn't know her personally into thinking the provocation was merely accidental. Her lips arced in a saucy smile, theatrically batting her mascara-laden eyelashes when she asked, "sexy enough?"

Without granting her much more than a stone-blank, two-second-long glance, he returned to the cuffs of his sleeves, noting with some chagrin that he'd packed the wrong shirt. "It'll do," he answered absently, and she huffed at him before plopping down on the other end of the bed, muttering vaguely under her breath about unappreciative man and wouldn't know sexy if it hit you in the face. A moment later he felt something small and yielding make an impact with his knee, and looked down to see two little bands of ruffled, cloth-covered elastic lying impassively on the bedcovers. "What—"

"Sleeve garters," Victoria chimed before he finished, and indicated his too-long sleeves while she dug around in her bag. "To help hold your cuffs back. Cut my hair for me?"

Compliantly, and knowing better than to argue, Rafael took the scissors she was brandishing at him over her turned shoulder. Her hair wasn't terribly long, just reaching the tops of her shoulders, and he was reminded of the last time she'd had him cut her hair like this; only that time they had been on the run – literally. He distinctly remembered her jugular having been at jeopardy from the half-blunt pocketknife scrounged out of a pawn-shop's trash bin. "How short?"

"Just bob it; I'll go re-layer it when you're done."

Pulling the tie from its ponytail sent the soft strands spilling across her shoulders. He gathered the pale pink tresses, callused fingers appreciating just how soft it was, and twisted before cutting neatly through the lot of it with a single snip. She attempted to move away, but he held her back, knowing she would have trouble seeing and reaching to trim it properly, and murmured quietly, "I'll do it." Though she hesitated a moment, she eventually settled back under the touch of his hands to her hair. Not for the first time, he was suddenly struck by the amount of trust always gave him, for most agents (most regular people, even) would have thought long and hard about presenting some near-stranger with their unprotected back. Considering the fact that he probably could have crushed her skull between his palms, he found it somewhat curious.

He wasn't sure what inspired the sudden urge to ask her, but for some reason he felt that the task of reshaping her hair was an excuse to keep her close enough to answer it. Taking the comb she offered, he parted and separated the strands of her hair – a skill he was copying from having watched her do it quite a few times (joy for photographic memory) – and slowly began the small series of cuts to form the layered style she favored. His voice was quiet, cool and distant as it always was, the question itself quite mild. "How do you always change the color so fast?"

Like a bell, Victoria's laughter rippled in the air to settle in his ears, resounding and vibrating, and he could almost see the smile spreading across her mouth, clearly not having expected that particular question, at least. "I bet you've just been itching to ask since we first started, eh?" Another little laugh, "I've known about HUNTER since before I can remember; my dad was a researcher for them, though he wasn't official—just a civilian. He was working on projects related to disguise and camouflage for the soldiers, things to help them hide more securely and even to improve the chances of escapes. He'd worked out a formula for a quick-dye powder based on a mix between staining and low-level radiation, better cover than a wig and more practical than actual hair-dye – you make it to hold a certain color and apply it, no residue, no mess, any left in the hair evaporates within a minute."

Her voice sobered, and he paused in his cutting to listen more closely, suddenly feeling on edge. Oddly, she seemed sad, her body almost seeming to shrink when she drew her legs up to let them curl around her side, a combination of guilt and regret tinting the voice that told him, "the Nazis got to him before he introduced it to the managers, and I haven't mentioned it—they decided to absorb me because they thought I was just really skilled with disguises. I really just leeched from my dad. I suppose I'm coveting the tools he meant to go to the cause, but I just wanted something to keep my dad with me, somehow…"

She grew silent; the moment stretching long beyond becoming uncomfortable, as if neither of them knew quite what to say. He was accustomed to being quiet – she usually did most of the talking, whether it was outside communication or chattering away at him to help pass the time – but he was not sure how to handle her sudden quality of muteness, other than ponder. The killer-spy inside him was wrought with suspicion. What was this? Victoria had never once been so vocal about her past – certainly not with him. That half of him composed of business and cynicism questioned her angle, her motives through the little speech…but the other half, the one still hanging on to humanity, dangling by a meager thread, understood.

This was the echo of a little girl who'd lost someone she had loved – someone she had loved very, very much. The remnants of a little girl frightened of forgetting the father taken away from her at a young age, a little girl scared to death of the world she didn't understand. The ghost of a girl who still lived on, haunted, desperate for something to hold on to, inside the mind of the grown, accomplished woman seated before him. It was an echo he well recognized, because he'd felt the same in a time not so long ago. And because of that, compassion, for probably the first time in years, overruled honed mental instincts. You couldn't be in a position like this one without having witnessed some kind of heartbreak, intellectually he knew that, but hearing it from her made it seem so much worse than it had under his own loss.

Having half-mustered an urge to extend some kind of comfort (exactly what, he wasn't sure), but then she laughed, if a little shakily, and shrugged, "sorry to whine, I haven't talked about it in a long time—guess I got a little carried away."

He wasn't sure how to reply at first, or even whether he should at all; she'd seemed so small just then, he was almost subconsciously afraid of breaking her with the pressure of his voice, though he supposed that was silly. "It's all right," he answered softly, and it was. He knew what it was like to loose a parent, he knew what it felt like to go on for such a long time and not have the chance to vent, and he didn't feel she was any weaker for carrying a scar because of it. Victoria was still one of the strongest women he'd ever known.

Lowering his gaze back to the soft strands of hair tucked between his fingers, he lifted the scissors and cut, severing at an angle to give it the razor-layers she so adored with shorter styles. A few more thoughtful snips and he was done, running the teeth of the comb through the newly shaped length of her hair, once again relishing in the faint echo of awe that she could get the color to such a pure shade of rose. She thanked him when he handed the tools back to her, smiling somewhat abashedly while tucking them back inside her bag only to pull out something else.

The smile she shared was crooked when she noticed him watching, turning her back again so she faced the opposite wall, and explained, "just to make Wendell happy."

The little glass vial caught the lamplight like a small star, cork making a muted popping sound when she removed the stopper and administered a small amount onto her bare fingers. Rafael noticed the fragrance of peppermint oil before anything else, just before he became more solidly aware of how close she was sitting. He could smell the soap she had used to wash her hands and face mingled with the oil when she lifted her fingers to her neck, smearing the clear liquid across the skin of her nape and along the curve of her throat. The liquid itself had no smell, but it didn't need one. The peppermint alone was powerful enough to drive him from the edge of the bed. He turned his back to her, focusing on the little rings of elastic she had offered and away from the slim hands he knew were tracing the edge of her bra and smoothing at the insides of her thighs.

It was odd…she had traipsed around in less than what she was wearing now countless times in front of him and he hadn't cared one bit. They had shared hotel rooms on and off for three years and he'd never been so attentive to her before; not even the time she had run from room to room in order to answer her com-phone in only her underwear six months into their partnership. Where was this subtle awareness coming from? Was it because he knew she wouldn't be accompanying him on a job for the first time since he had joined HUNTER? Was it because she had shared some of herself with him, when she had already known so much about him? Was that it? It must have been.

When her laughter rang, he snapped out of his little rut of thought, and noticed she was standing in front of him, prying his fingers from where they were inattentively fussing with the garters. "Not like that! They need to be lower, just above the elbows, or you'll loose the feeling in your arms." She fussed at him for a few moments, plucking his sleeves into shape, re-straightening his tie, and pausing for a breath before tucking her pretty silver pocket watch into his waistcoat (a pointed reference to his penchant for losing track of the time when she wasn't there to remind him). Then, apparently satisfied, she shot him a cheery smile and chirped, "all ready!" Apparently her mood had improved.

In order to keep up the appearance that they were in their room while out and about, they turned on the TV for disguising noise and animation, keeping it at a volume that could have been masking other noises (since they were supposed to be masquerading as a married couple), and put the "do not disturb" sign out on the door. In addition, they were thankful their managers had thought ahead and situated them on a second-story room at the rear of the building, because they had to leave through the back window. It was a good-sized window, and Rafael had no trouble maneuvering his body onto the semi-slanted roofing of the porch below them, but Victoria didn't have it quite so easy in her snug skirt and heels.

Faux glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, lower lip pinned between her teeth, she clambered awkwardly onto the window ledge, shimmying to stretch her feet out far enough to get a good grip and lacking a good deal of her usual grace. Taking note of the tiny, precarious little shoes, Rafael shifted his weight just in time and managed to prevent her from taking a nasty spill by gripping her waist and pressing her back into the outside wall to keep her balanced. She swore like a sailor, curing Leveque and his shoe fetish, but he didn't pay much attention. He knew she liked looking pretty – and usually pretty to her meant heels sharp enough to stab through flesh. Actually, he found the situation to be somewhat bemusing.

Fairly soon she motioned for him to climb down to the ground, and he did so with an ease any feline would have envied, landing silently and taking a quick look around before turning back and reaching up to help his partner. Repeating the uneasy shimmy, the fabric of her skirt rode up a few inches, baring her knees, clearly wishing she'd had the choice to change outside the hotel room. But she slid into his arms quite smoothly, one arm wrapping around his shoulders to ease the impact of her weight into his torso – not that she needed to, she really didn't weigh that much. Of course, his perception was a bit skewed, since his strength wasn't quite what could be called proportioned to his figure, but he didn't consider her very heavy at all. No, she was warm and soft, the lace of her stocking hem brushing his gloved hand when he turned from the wall to set her down. Together they jogged across the back street into the shelter of a nearby alley, where they would be parting ways.

"Have fun," Victoria bid him, looking somewhat distracted as she applied a light coating of sugary pink lipstick to her mouth without a mirror or even decent lighting (he had witnessed her do this several times before, but it never ceased to amaze him) and pinched her own cheeks to draw a flushed tone. "Remember to flag them, I've put some in your inside pocket…and for god's sake, remember to meet me at Kirschenstrasse for checkpoint. Three hours." The warning glare she threw at him was downright withering. "I won't go back to the hotel until you show up, and if you forget, so help me—"

"I'll remember," Rafael retorted, voice distinctly dead-pan, turning to head off down the alley and toward the restaurant that was his destination.

Though she looked somewhat doubtful, Victoria sighed and shook her head, pale rose hair wild about her face. "All right then…well, see you soon!" She offered him a jaunty wave and headed off down the street, hips swaying with the light, airy quality of her walk. Only a woman could walk like that, and only a woman could cause a man's eyes to linger so long, watching as she departed and wondering why he had never noticed how sweet the curve of her waist and thigh was before.

What was it that was urging him to follow her – to reach out and stop her from leaving him alone? Was it the smell of her perfume that lingered on the air? Was she doing this intentionally? Testing him? There was that inner-cynic again.

With a firm mental shift of gears, he turned away from the quiet, lamp-lit street, his feet carrying him down the maze of allies in the direction of his goal. The dry taste of the cigarette was a welcome contrast to the mild night, the fine puffs of smoke like a watered-down version of the cloud-cover blanketing the sky and sealing off the moon. Excellent...hiding would be no trouble at all. Silent as a ghost, he leapt up to the edge of a high wall, peering over the ground-levels of the city, seeking out the quarry he would be hunting.

Due to the ten o'clock curfew, there were very few people out and about. Those with either license or business could pass through until midnight, and then only the officers could be outside. For a long ways off, nothing moved. Pricked ears detected not even a whisper upon the breeze, until… He shifted, eyes flickering to focus just to the left, and found what he had been looking for.

Right on target. Pun very much intended.

He jumped, landed, and head off at a loping sprint, speed carrying him through backstreets and around sharpened corners and over fences, running with the agile direction of a wolf on the prowl. When he had drawn near enough to keep the target in sight, he slowed to a silent walk, pacing and patient, stalking from the shadows to lie in wait for reemergence from the restaurant whose ovens filled the air with the smells of bratwurst and strudel.

They wouldn't know what had hit them until they were already dead.

— Across town; the apartments and study of Jacques Leveque —

The poor girl hadn't struggled much – not that Victoria gave her much of a chance to. Looking up from the papers she was arranging when she'd heard a noise, the tiny blond found herself face-to-face with another woman; one she neither recognized nor could remember ever being hired. She opened her mouth; half rising from her chair…and the world suddenly went black, her body dropping like a stone upon impact striking the base of her neck. Victoria hefted her away from the desk, lugging the innocent secretary across the room and set her in the closet after securing her in place with a few rounds of rope, making sure she wouldn't risk getting injured.

It was relatively easy, quick too, and while she felt a slight bit of pity for the girl, she was glad for simple incapacitation. Lack of struggle gave her more time, more security, and ultimately made her feel that she had more control over the situation without having to worry about someone coming running, alerted by a fuss.

After doing a quick look-through of the papers the woman had been gathering, she piled them in a plain yellow folder and set them aside. They were nothing more than budget records for an upcoming meeting; relatively uninteresting. What she needed was something more…substantial. Shuffling around, rummaging through drawers, she scanned through the untreated lenses of her glasses, searching for the documents relating to the slave trade proposition. She filtered through three of the drawers with no success, but inside the fourth, after shoving aside a folder of blueprints, she found what she'd been looking for. Both the original proposition speech and the lists of supporters and benefactors she tucked aside to take back with her, then she checked the clock, noting the time, and settled down to familiarize herself with the material for Leveque's morning meeting. She would have to sound like she knew what she was talking about, regardless of the fact that the man would not be attending that meeting.

The twenty-five minutes she spent reading the budget reports and spending estimations for the coming year were probably the twenty-five most boring minutes ever spent in the entire span of her life. Finally it got to the point that she didn't even care if she was early, she stood and stretched, bending slightly over the desk to sift through the papers and rearrange them into some semblance of order. A strand of hair tickled the side of her neck, and she lifted a hand to brush it away, fluffing it back into order and sliding the folders into her arms before turning to the door.

Just managing to bite off the end of the squeal of alarm, she jumped, startled to see the man leaning passively against the doorframe across the room. He'd been ridiculously quiet – so quiet that even her trained ears hadn't heard him. But she really didn't expect much less from a man of his credentials. One didn't become Obergruppenführerwithout having some skill as far as being a soldier went, and a damn fine one, at that. Jacques Leveque was a long, lanky man, but a well-built one; accustomed to spying and silence when he moved, of which she had been well aware. She had also known of his suave, charm-painted good-looks, the fine-featured face and strong chin, broad of shoulder and equipped with a quick, thin-lipped smile. The appearance helped him gain his conquests.

"Oh!" She pressed a hand to her heart, pretending to recover from the surprise (inside, she was more than wary), smiling sweetly at him, "Monsieur Leveque, you startled me!" Lifting them to emphasize the folders she was carrying, "I was just gathering the papers for the budget meeting tomorrow."

He pushed away from the wall, crossing the room with slow, casual steps, appearing to seem at ease and harmless with his hands in his slacks pockets. "You would be the new secretary, Miss—?"

"Schneider," she answered, shyly lowering her eyes for a moment when he drew nearer, before glancing back up to watch him circling the side of the desk, "Else Schneider, Sir."

"Then I should thank you, Else," he smiled at her, his dark eyes flickering down from her face to take in the purposefully ruffled state of her clothing, apparently finding particular interest in the slice of cleavage lined with black lace.

She shrugged, holding out the pile for him to take. "Just doing my job."

The laughter that came from his throat was husky and warm, would have been attractive had it not come from him – someone she despised down to the core of her being for what he was and what he had done, the lives he had signed away with a bored flourish of his pen. He took the papers she offered and set them down on the edge of the desk, an action which caused his arm to brush against her hip. Cleverly practiced, indeed. "Working for a dull old desk-officer, eh? Shouldn't a pretty girl be spending her time somewhere less boring?"

Her giggles were low and muffled behind her hand, batting her eyelashes at him in a way that made it seem unintentional, using old, once well-used skills to play innocently coy. "You're not an old man, Monsieur, and I'm not that pretty." He was backing her into the desk, discreetly, she gave him credit for that, the man knew what he was doing, but so did she. She pretended to let him close her into the corner, settling her hips against the edge of the smooth wood and tucking her chin to look up at him, shy, but definitely sending the message that she was interested.

"But you are," he insisted, using flattery to cushion and fluff up his intent, a smooth way to chip away at her defenses. She vaguely wondered how many innocent girls had been coerced into feeding him this way, and felt her resolve to destroy him harden like ice. The informants who had investigated him had told her that he liked women who appeared shy and naïve, even if they weren't on the inside, but he also had a soft spot for those not so experienced, and he had no qualms about using his authority to get what he wanted. A man-whore as much as a rapist, he was a threat to every decent woman and shamed every decent man; everything about that disgusted her. It took a lot of determination and hard mental work to keep from strangling him right there. His hand lifted, taking a lock of her hair between his fingers and gently rubbing, exclaiming, "what a wondrous color. Is it natural?"

"I don't usually say…" she lifted her shoulder in a little half-shrug, noticing his focus dart to the open neck of her blouse to eye the swell of her chest, and smiled suggestively, idly playing with her collar. "Do you want to find out?"

His smile widened, his hand sliding behind her neck as he lowered his lips to her jaw. Just a little lower and she'd have him stiffer than a board, and not in the way he would have liked. "I'd love to." She tipped her head back, leaning back against the desk to expose her throat to him, inviting, her hand lifting to rest against his shoulder, murmuring a quiet plea. His empty hand reached forward to just touch the curve of her thigh, fingertips skimmed the arc of lace topping the exposed stocking, traced the line of her garter, to reach around her and land it, palm flat, against the surface of the desk.

She pretended to relish the attention, curling the leg he attended to along his thigh, sighing and flaunting to play to his ego, pleased when he stepped between her legs as offered. His tongue grazed her cheek, and she crushed a scream of disgust, keeping her shield firmly in place. It didn't matter…he'd be dead soon anyway. Now put that mouth a little lower – his lips moved to her ear instead, nipping briefly at the lobe before he whispered, "I've waited a long time for this, Victoria Churchill."

That was when she knew she was in trouble.

— The other side of town; an alley —

It was at the "who the hell are you?" that they lost him. After that, their breaths had been numbered, and it hadn't been a very big number. With a few speedy weaves of his wire and several sharp tugs, every single one of the five guards fell like rocks plunking into a still pool. Easy. Too, too easy. The target himself wasn't quite as easy, though that was simply because the man refused to go down without a proper fight, which was fine by him.

Böhme had pulled out a gun first, his aim with the pistol quite clear due to nerved accustomed to both danger and assassins alike, but Rafael was faster than him. The new, thinner wire sliced right through the barrel, and the severed metal was flicked from the man's hand like a poisonous spider. Next was a knife, which was knocked away rather than wasting the energy on casting by a ready foot. Then it was down to fists; and while Böhme was not lightweight enough to be called an unworthy opponent, it was just that his skill and his enemy's were not evenly matched. That, and Rafael had flesh-cutting wire looped around the fingers that danced along thick limbs and fat neck, drawing blood when he pulled just tight enough to make the officer realize that he couldn't move without dismembering himself.

"You think you'll win?" the man spat, murder in his eyes as he scowled at his soon-to-be killer. "You vigilantes have nothing to pull our greatness down. You're nothing but dogs and worm-dung, filthy, stinking animals, every one of you—"

"Be quiet." The tirade was instantly silenced after a second warning pull, a thin trickle of blood slipping down the line of the throat under the faint glimmer of blue-shining metal. "I'm tired of listening to your bullshit. Have anything to tell me that's relevant?"

Böhme snorted. "You'll kill me if I talk or not."

"True."

"Then go fuck yourself."

The smile that crossed Rafael's fine lips was cold. "Pain it is. Happy dying, Pig." And with that he gave a skillful tug, tearing right through all four limbs, leaving the neck in tact so the man would bleed out instead of pass on from decapitation. He didn't even wait until Böhme died before driving the thin metal stake into his heart, wrapped with the HUNTER armband and insignia, turning to walk away just as the bubbling chokes of the last few breaths were coughed from the failing pair of lungs.

It was straight to the meeting place then, no wandering around, no stopping to change out of his blood-crusted shirt and slacks, because his time was already almost up. According to the watch, he had little time left to get back to the checkpoint before Victoria was allowed to wring his neck for turning up late. He had stalked the little party for too long after their meal, having used up nearly an hour listening to them for information before driving them into the backstreet like pigs to the slaughter. All Nazis were pigs, as far as he was concerned. But he hadn't received much for his efforts; just that the Führer was planning to reopen the gas chambers – old news, they'd known about that particular plan for almost three months now.

He ran along the streets, cutting alleys and rooftops to save time in his travel, but, ultimately, it didn't really matter. Ten minutes after the specified time, he arrived at the corner of Kirschenstrasse and Beckerstrasse, breathing heavily and wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow. When he stepped into the circle of weak light from the lamp overhead, so did the two checkpoint managers, men he knew well enough, having signed in assignments with them before. Clarke and Lensherr were a younger pair than was usual for the checkpoint scouts, which mostly consisted of older, retired agents, but they had enthusiasm that many of the other pairs had lost over the years to bitterness, so they were easier to work with in most cases.

Ephraim Lensherr, a Jew and proud one, waved a hello to the agent, while his partner was busy looking around the streets as though in watch for any soldiers intent on keeping curfew. "We were starting to wonder if you'd turn up," Ephraim grinned, his olive-toned face sporting a few more lines than Rafael remembered seeing before.

"Sorry, prying," Rafael answered, and glanced over his shoulder, expecting Victoria to come leaping at him out of the alley like a tiger to throttle him for having the nerve to be late.

"Your partner head back to the hotel?" That was Jacob Clarke, an ex-soldier, forced private for the Nazis because of his pretty Aryan looks and his heritage. He had betrayed his own family to work for the Queen, a true test of loyalty that had drawn admiration from many of his fellows. But his words were surprising, and Rafael had to take a moment to think about what he was being asked. "Did she tell you she was heading back when she was done?"

"No…" a tiny frown line appeared, creasing the fair skin of his brow and shadowing his blue eyes. "She told me she would wait until I got here. There was no change." What the hell was going on?

The two scouts exchanged a severely concerned glance, their eyes dark, Clarke's teeth gripping his lip so hard it might have started bleeding after another moment. Ephraim answered, his tone slow, as if to offer some sense of calm to the situation that was steadily elevating in danger. They could all feel it. "She hasn't checked in—"

"Impossible," Rafael interrupted firmly, "Victoria's never late."

"Yes, but we haven't seen her. Unless…you don't think—"

The assassin had already started off, sprinting hard and fast toward the direction opposite the one he had come from; toward the apartment address he could still see swimming in his head along with the scent of peppermint. If Victoria hadn't shown up…he had to find her; if for no other reason than to make sure he stopped Leveque from getting anything out of her. He didn't think she would ever talk, not even under torture, but that wasn't the point. As her partner, it was his job to help her if she needed it, protect her if she needed it; it was his job to find her, to finish the task appointed to her if she had failed…

And, if he had to, silence her before she gave away any of HUNTER's secrets.

 

Part 5: A Thing Divine​

His thoughts flew as he ran; a spinning, chaotic mess of brainwork that made his steps seem to take longer then they really did. Though he ran faster than he probably ever had before, each breath that passed felt like it ate up several minutes and he never seemed to get any closer to where he was headed. Splashing through puddles, tearing through street after street, taking every shortcut he could think of. Wire threaded and rethreaded through his fingers, an anxious, almost nervous tick that had never shown itself before, ready to be cast at an enemy he didn't know how to face.

What if she was capable of succumbing? He'd never imagined her to be vulnerable to torture…not when she was always so coolly collected about everything. Sure, she shrieked and carried on about little things, but what woman didn't? She was cheery and girlish, yes, affectionate, sweet-tempered; but her personality had never threatened to hinder her. He knew she was strong – she was very strong, her ability to separate life from work unparalleled, her dedication almost ridiculous. But what if that wasn't enough?

…and what if he wasn't enough to protect her?

He'd faced torture before; it had been part of his accident – or, rather, it had followed the accident. Nazi soldiers were brutal to their victims, sparing no thought for the Geneva Convention's old, forsaken laws, which were nothing more now than a dream of the past. He still had the scar from the steel poker they'd used to burn him, their Iron Cross permanently branded into his bicep, seared within his flesh as an ugly reminder of what he was. Imperfect, less than worthy, a black mark on their perfect Aryan ideal…humiliated and degraded, ripped to pieces, sewn back together only to be shredded again. Over and over again.

Could she take that kind of treatment? Would she endure enough to keep her mouth shut?

Would she survive?

His shoes scraped against the ground, his body rigid, muscles tight and coiled to spring, one with the shadows when he listened for the noise to come again. There…the padding of footsteps, quiet, but hurried. Behind it he could trace the rapid rasp of breath, lungs overworked and tired, though the body kept running. Blue eyes scanned his surroundings, eyeing the niches that didn't exist, realizing that there was nowhere to hide. He was going to have to fight. No matter.

He braced, bending his knees for grounding and taking off like a shot, leaping at the enemy with the clear intent of painting the cement with their cerebral fluid. One arm raised, wire pulled taut to split through the skull adorned with petal-pink hair that stumbled into his grasp. On a split-second reflex of recognition, he managed to pull away, as fast as he was able, startled into rationality when Victoria gasped and shoved herself backward into the wall to get out of range. Her doe brown eyes were wide with shock, hands gripping the bricks digging into her back as if they could be used as weapons.

For a moment, neither one of them moved, simply staring at one another; Victoria breathless and half-fallen against the wall, Rafael defensively crouched and quite startled. Until—

"Rafe…" she hissed, relieved and completely exasperated. "You scared the bloody hell out of me! What are you—"

He was gripping her by the arms, pulling her upright and staring her in the eyes, his height bearing down on her like a weight. Damn girl, what the hell was she doing prancing around – how dare she act so flippant. He wanted to shake her, force some sense back into her skull, punish her for scaring him so badly. "What happened?" came the demand, his voice stern, "why did you miss the checkpoint time?"

"Relax," she snapped at him, flustered and annoyed, "we have a traitor somewhere—Leveque knew I was coming."

"What?"

"Had my name and everything…even knew I was wearing a drug." Shrugging out of his grip, she took a few steps back, and he took the offered moment to examine her with a mixture of alarm, concern, and relief. It was apparent there had been a struggle; Leveque was a strong man, so it didn't surprise him to see he a little roughened up from taking him on, evident in the long, jagged tear along the seam of her skirt and the fact that her shirt was missing most of its buttons. She had tied the ends around her ribs to keep it closed, displaying her midriff, and she had lost her shoes…but apart from that and a wild muss to her hair, she looked relatively unharmed. No sign of injury, guilt, or anything else to speak of anything remotely more negative than an aggressive advance.

He tilted his chin to keep eye contact, peering intently at her through the fringe of his bangs and pressing, "are you ok?"

"Ugh," she huffed, clutching at his wrist and dragging him away from the street, back toward their hotel, though it would be a five-minute walk to get there. "I'm perfectly fine—no, that's a lie. I'm pissed off! Whoever gave the tip-off is going to get a piece of my gun in their brains someday—" Her glower, he was positive, could have melted through iron. Rage rolled from her in toxic, billowing black clouds, pessimistic and sulking, and he seriously wondered whether it would be a good idea to question her.

But he felt obligated, so he tugged her back, forcing her to slow her walk to an easier pace and asked again, "what happened, Victoria?"

"We can talk when I get clean."

"But did you—"

"Yes, I offed Leveque. Jesus Christ, I'm not that stupid," she groused, padding carefully in her stocking-feet, "when I kicked, I got him with my heel. Bled out with stomach acid to speed the bastard on his way. Lost the other one running…s'hard to book it from fifteen guards with only one shoe on. What about you?" She asked him, giving him a once-over and praising with a nod, "kept yourself clean, anyway. Good show."

Rafael didn't answer right away, but reached into his pocket to retrieve his lighter and a fresh cigarette. Once he had taken a good drag, he seemed more inclined to talk, and replied tonelessly, "fine. They're all dead."

And that was their path into pattern. Neither said it, but they were both, quite bluntly, ecstatic to see one another; so much that they had no trouble adopted the familiar silence to walk back, postponing their more detailed reports for when they felt a little more secure. They kept close, Victoria keeping her hand on Rafael's forearm, both pairs of eyes tracing the shadows that moved among the allies they stuck to like spies in the night. Clarke and Lensherr were still at their post when they showed up, weary with relief, and the two scouts took several moments to praise whatever kind of god they believed in for the news of the second successful mission and their HUNTER's safe return.

Clarke's wiry arms were flung around Victoria's waist and squeezed her tight, swinging her around in the air to the sound of her muffled shriek of laughter, his face buried in her collar when he jogged up to the returned assassins. "We thought you were caught," he moaned, "poor girl, are you hurt? Are you injured anywhere?" He pressed her again and again, pushing her to arm's length to get a good look at her, scanning her for wounds and taking inventory of her rips and missing shoes. "What'd the bastard do to you?"

"No," Victoria retorted patiently, "I'm not injured, just a little frazzled. Moron got a little friendly is all—just liked it rough, I think." She rubbed the back of her neck, ruffling the rosy hair at her nape while the scouts stood looking disgusted, "but he's dead now, so no worries."

"Well," Clarke gripped her in another hug, grinning as he did so, "we're glad you're ok."

The blond scout's lips brushed her cheek; a brief peck of affection, and Rafael was oddly startled to feel his stomach turn cold with dislike. He had always been on relatively good terms with this pair, but seeing Clarke handle Victoria so casually made him feel like snapping the boy's neck in two. Taking a deep drag on the cigarette, he willed his own blood to cool, deescalating the little bite of anger with a determined shove of will; brushing it off as a defensive reaction, nothing more. He was just edgy, suffering an impulsive after-effect from the stress of having thought she'd been caught. That was all – a completely rational response. She was his partner, after all.

Gripping her shoulder lightly, he murmured, "we should head back. It's not safe to linger outside so late."

With an agreeing nod, Lensherr lodged his hands into his coat pockets. "We'll file your reports and reset your schedule. When it's safe to send you back to HQ, one of us will be in touch." He offered a quiet smile to Victoria, "glad you're ok, Sparky."

"Yeah," came Clarke's parting comment, and he flashed Rafael a wink. "Take care of her!" With a jaunty wave, he melted discreetly into the shadows with his fellow scout, leaving the two HUNTERs to their own company, Rafael generally displeased and Victoria squawking with protest.

"Bah! As if I need you to take care of me," she snorted, turning with an aggravated huff toward the hotel.

Wisely, he decided not to gift this with a response. Normally he would have agreed with her…but tonight, things were different. He was an intelligent man, unusually so for one so gifted physically, and he could discern quite aptly when little details changed or fluctuated – details were a part of what he did. Which vein to slice, which soldier would run the fastest and in which direction. And make no mistake, something had changed. He didn't know exactly what it was; whether it was related to the moment of panic driven by her temporary disappearance or something else, he knew it was there. Thus, the habitual reply "of course you don't" was forsaken, if only in the back of his mind, for "sometimes I wonder…"

There was a shift in the pattern, something subtle about the way her presence pressed against his mind like a constant, nagging worry. Maybe worry wasn't the right term…more like an awareness. Of course, he'd always been aware of her before, but it wasn't the same as at that precise moment. Things that he shouldn't have been noticing, shouldn't have been thinking about, flitted through his brain like sparks from a flame. Was she really ok? Had Leveque disturbed her in some way to get her so wound up? He was the stiff one, not her…so what had happened? What had the man done to dishevel her so? And what in god's name had he done to her shirt?

It was around the time when the mental image of Jacques Leveque's filthy Fascist hands ripping open her shirt-front that he knew he'd crossed the line. When he could feel the snarl beginning to roll itself into life at the base of his throat like a living thing trying to break free of a cage, he realized that it was inappropriate. What did he care? She was fine. Her body and what happened to it was none of his affair.

Luckily enough, they didn't have to scale the walls and rooftops to get back to their rooms. With the curfew in place, most businesses simply shut down at nine, so the lobby was virtually deserted. Using a few quick twists with a pin extracted from a hidden pocket in Victoria's skirt Rafael was able to pick the lock and let them both in, just barely managing to hold back a bark of laughter in reaction to her stocking-footed skittering across the polished wood flooring. He was treated to a nasty glare for having the gall to show amusement, which informed him that her mood was still less than thrilled. After hiding out in a broom closet for a few minutes while the hall guard passed on his rounds, they took a last run to their room and slid gratefully inside, pulling the locks into place and shutting off the television broadcasting the censor-passed program that was a mock of a history lesson with some displeasure.

Mood foul, Victoria spared no time in tromping irritably across the floor and taking command of the bathroom again, dragging her bag with her. A moment after the door had slammed shut he could hear the water running, and deduced that she was washing herself clean of the paralyzer – and possibly of Leveque's scent. He didn't blame her in the least. In her position, he would have scraped the top layer of his skin off if a greedy pig like that man had put a hand on him.

He changed quickly, stripping of work clothes and allowing his skin to breathe for a short, blissful moment of nakedness. The uniform was tucked away, a soft pair of black slacks and a plain white, sleeveless shirt which he pulled over his head with a twinge of regret. Though prudency and business etiquette dictated that he go clothed at all times in the presence of his partner, he really didn't feel like wearing a shirt – the cotton felt stifling to his torso. But he left it alone, settling the touch of restlessness by raiding the closet, mostly empty but for a small selection of extra blankets, pillows, and even (to his extraordinary luck) an air mattress. By the time he'd drug the mattress and the motor-run inflator from the little storage space and had his selection of bedding piled beside it, ready to set up, the click of the bathroom door announced Victoria's reemergence.

"What are you doing? It's my turn for the floor."

Every job that required sleeping overnight they swapped who got the bed, since most of the rooms they used were singles (due to cost effectiveness). Last time had been her turn, so technically it was his chance, but he wasn't feeling accommodating. "You had a hard assignment; you take the bed."

"No," she retorted, and he lifted his head to offer her his no-argument, stone-cold look, but found himself unable to speak when his blue eyes landed on her. Accustomed as he was to her running around in her underwear, it hadn't quite prepared him for the scrap of silk that couldn't possibly be worth calling a nightgown hugging her curvy little body. She plopped down on the edge of the bed, dragging a brush through her sparsely-dampened hair and crossing her legs, still encased in stockings. He could have cursed those damned stockings. "You had just as much work as I did. It's your turn."

"Just—take the bed." He couldn't look away…why couldn't he look away? Why was he so entranced by the turquoise shade against her pale skin, clinging to every line of her torso to the thigh, a shimmering layer of allure. Damn it. Composure was key here. Composure. Why the hell was she being stubborn now? He was already feeling off – she wasn't helping a bit. Not one bit.

Brown eyes flashed. "It's your turn."

"For once in your life," he snapped, "would you not act so obstinate? Just once!"

"You're not my superior," she groused at him, her tone hard with her independent streak.

He got to his feet, sliding slowly, deadly smooth to conceal the spark of temper hissing in his veins. "I never said I was."

"Whatever." Cold shoulder pushed in front of him, she diverted her gaze, as if she deemed the conversation unworthy of her attention. Her hands slid against the silk draping over her hip with the ease of a liquid, pushing it upward to fuss with the clip of one of her garter-straps. Unable to help the impulsive reaction, his eyes followed the movement…examining the soft white skin traced with black lace and satin, and alarmed when he found the purpling marks of finger-shaped bruises.

Instantly, as if a switch had been flipped, the rage was unleashed. He crossed the distance with a single, long-legged stride, bringing him to a point just beside her, looming over her seated figure like a giant, his insides blazing with the hunger for vengeance. "He hurt you…" he said, so near a dead-pan that she disregarded it for indifference.

Her snort was certainly less than enthusiastic, looking down at the blemishes to her hipbone. "It's just a few bruises."

"I don't care."

She couldn't catch the vehemence in the tone he used. Despite herself and all her reassurances, she was upset, and she couldn't handle the remark she heard to be so cruel. It made her snap. Eyes narrowed, nearly swelling with fury, she abandoned the garter for the sake of treating him to a look so venomous it wasn't even a glare anymore. "I know you don't care," she snapped, her voice quick and hard as steel. "You never care. You're a void—an empty, emotionless space consumed with your work and nothing else! At least I try to have a life! And what do you have? Nothing but your cigarettes and your machine-warped muscle."

He had never reacted well to being provoked. "Victoria—" he warned; the word like a drop of poison on the air, a threat and a concern all at once.

"Oh, so that's how it is?" Her finger jabbed into his chest, jarring, dripping with dislike. How had it come to such a contest of will? Where had their assumed compatibility gone? "Fine! Bully me, threaten me, rip me to pieces with your precious bits of metal, I've never cared about you either, insensitive, antisocial—"

"Be quiet."

"I won't be quiet! I've had enough of your disinterest and your disdain…all you ever do is treat me like an accessory, like a watch or a day planner you can just chuck aside whenever you don't feel like looking at me."

Her tangent hurt and he didn't try to deny it. How could she think that was all she was to him? Didn't she know how much she did for him – how much he appreciated all that? she wasn't an accessory, she was a necessity; he'd realized that after this solitary job, the empty place where she always stood, the place at his shoulder where she liked to sling her arm, the unruffled hair at his head, the loneliness. The barbs she threw at him pierced him like arrow after arrow to his flesh, eliciting a pain he hadn't know he could still feel. It engulfed him, exhilarating and alive, something he hadn't felt since before the accident, before he'd devoted himself completely to killing. Rage…passion. Emotion.

"—I gave up my own sector, a title, a future, just so I could endorse some stupid program, and what do I get? Some arrogant jerk who's too full of himself and his image to show a little humanity—"

"Victoria," his body moved half on impulse, blood singing with the urge, striking like a python to slam the palms of both hands on the mattress to either side of her, bringing him close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin, his face close enough to taste the flavor of her breath. Part hiss, part purr, part something else, his voice lowered and roughened, the snap of tolerance breaking against the word humanity. "Be quiet." She wanted him to be human? He'd give her human.

She squealed, enraged, when he kissed her, his lips crushing to her mouth for only a quick, fiery instant before she shoved him away. Hands planted firmly against his chest, she pushed as hard as she had the strength to, but her will was not enough to combat his modified flesh. "You bastard," she choked, "don't you—"

He kissed her again, pressing hard enough to bite, his teeth snaring her lower lip and his tongue prying her mouth into accommodation, using the weight of his body to restrain her. Though she writhed and hit and clawed at him, he didn't let her up, not for a long, perilous moment; damning himself all the while for being so harsh with her after her already difficult night. But it wasn't enough to sympathize for her; it wasn't enough to commiserate from afar. Not this time. He didn't know why now, of all days, or why there, of all places…but he did know what he wanted. He hadn't felt any kind of attraction for such a long time, but he still knew what the aching meant, and he knew how good it felt to have her squirming so deliciously beneath him.

For the second time, she shoved him away, but she wasn't nearly as angry as she had been before. Instead of temper in her brown eyes, he could see the pain clouding in its place. "Don't do this," she whispered with swollen lips, breathless and flushed from his aggression. "Don't—I don't want it…"

She was lying. The tremble to her fingers was evidence enough to attest to that, never mind what the rest of her was telling him. It was oddly enticing to see intimacy with his enhanced senses, smelling the desperation on her breath, restless and terrified, the taste of the desire coating her skin like a layer of paint. She lied and she knew it. And she knew how long she'd been hiding it, too. Had she always loved him so? Had she always been reaching for his attention only to be snubbed by the cold disinterest he showed to everyone and everything? Had she just been trying to find a distraction, hoping beyond hope that one of the boys she stuck to would relieve her of her addiction to him? Why had she never told him?

So even her brick-walled strength had its limits. She was a better actress than he'd ever given her credit for…but not now.

He could have sworn there were tears in her eyes, no longer furious and hurt, but despairing, pleading, trying to save herself from bleeding any more than she already had. It registered as a wound that needed treating, a balm that he offered by way of his lips, lowering his face to the arc of her shoulder and working his way up to her throat, the drag of his tongue a caress of agony to the both of them. She shuddered, unconsciously softening for him, her body warm and welcoming no matter what she kept hoarsely whispering at him. "Rafael...I said no—"

"Hush."

Slim fingers wound themselves tight amid the fabric of his shirt, clenched and straining, her legs finally going limp to adjust around the insistent pressure of his knee. "Please, don't do something you don't want—"

"You have no idea what I want," he cut her off, the growl slightly more feral than he'd originally intended, but her responding noise of quiet distress was a positive one. "I don't do anything half-way."

"But you'll just leave," her terror echoed in the grip she kept at his chest, white-knuckled fists connecting solidly with his collar, not enough to hurt him, but enough that he caught the severity of her concern. She really did think he was going to leave her if she let him do this; she thought he would abandon her, just like all the other men in her life. The brush of her words against his hair was an expression of such incredible sadness that it physically burned him to hear it, tearing him open like a fragile plastic bag and pouring out his insides. "Just like everyone else…" it died with a half-swallowed sob.

Compassionate, purposely gentle for the first time he could remember, he nuzzled against the little hollow at the base of her throat, touching a soft kiss to the skin still slightly damp from her washcloth. "I'm not going anywhere, liebchen. Now hush and let me touch you."

At first she seemed confused, disbelieving, assuming he was simply telling her what she wanted to hear. But after he allowed his teeth a soft graze against the skin of her collarbone, she either decided to trust him, or just ceased to care anymore. She yanked upward on the cloth enclosing his chest and abdomen, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside, not caring where it went, and tucked her fingertips underneath the waistband of his pants to shove them down so he could kick them away. He reveled in the freedom, the caress of the air to his skin, the touch of silk to his naked stomach, and jerked into movement, propping himself upright on his knees and gripping the flimsy straps of the ridiculous little slip and pulling harshly down to strip the veil from her breasts. The gasp was startled, but only in response to his fervor, the swift shift from surprise to rapture was utterly despairing with happiness.

She reached for him, arms circling his shoulders, hand touching a reverent, thoughtful stroke to the cross scarring the powerful flesh of his left arm, and arched her back as if offering herself like a sacrifice. Sighing and silken, she responded as perfectly as he could have hoped, crushing him farther and farther into the pits of hell with the insensible mixture of obsession and lust clouding his senses. Her body yielded freely, always so dreamily and languid, a muting, cushioning counter to the rough, ragged force he used to pin her securely to the firm mattress swathed with fine white sheets. The hands raking through his hair and smoothing down his back and tracing the dips and facets to his abdomen and tracing lines against his chest sent him spiraling toward madness, each touch leaving a tingling trail of liquid flame to streak his skin. The sound of her murmurs a pleasure all their own, the curve of her calves against his bent knees a cradle and a shackle to make him follow through with the promises he imprinted into her flesh.

When he went for the hem of her dress, she remembered the garters and stockings with a startled little jerk. Reaching for the clips, her wrist brushed against the inside of his thigh, tearing the snarl from him like a knife from a stab-wound. "Leave them," he ordered, and she compliantly obeyed, settling for digging her nails into his back in time to the hard, fluid thrust that crushed her hips so persuasively against his. The lack of underwear pleased him, as did the friction of the silk and lace coating the legs wrapped around his waist, delighting in the clutch of her body embracing him in such a welcoming manner, and he entertained the thought of her having planned this all along. It was dismissed, like so many other things, when he ripped the convulsion from her, following directly in her wake simply due to the keening cry she used to convey her pleasure.

But it wasn't the end. Endings couldn't be bittersweet, couldn't go without perfection. So they practiced until they got it exactly right, soaking the sheets in release and cracking the flimsy, decorative headboard propped against the wall, and not bothering to keep quiet. The argument about the bed was never resolved, nor would it ever be, because it was turned insignificant when compared with the delicious amount of tension left rising and falling between them, through them, around them.

Never again would she tell him "no."

And never again would he leave her in doubt of where she stood in his world.

 

Part 6: Six Gun Quota​

— The Next Morning —

The problem wasn't that he'd had her; it was that he couldn't seem to get enough of her. When he woke to find her fast asleep tucked under his arm with her cheek sloped against his collarbone he couldn't quite bite the urge to kiss her back into consciousness. She was a light sleeper by nature, and woke quickly, falling to a fit of sniggering that meshed nicely with the subdued laughter that jarred his throat. He hadn't laughed out loud for…he wasn't certain he knew how long. The touch of her lips to his chin was soft in texture, smooth and rosy, her mouth swollen and pink from an excess of kissing, but the contact was firm and sure as well. She wasn't shy, not even to the point of showing a minor touch of regret for having screwed her partner three times in a row the previous evening.

He followed her into the shower, not for further pursuits of a devious nature, but simply to get clean and wake up the rest of the way, and to help her wash the pink dye from her hair with special soap…and because he didn't want to be too far away from her. Under the spray, she was soft and vulnerable, fragile, and just a little petulant, like she had been in the bed under the rather forceful assertion of his wants – wants he hadn't perused since long before the accident – and he knew he was seeing the other half of Victoria's vibrant personality. A half he hadn't often witnessed before…so contentedly peaceful. The half that went hidden and concealed because it was safer that way to put on a tough shell, not that she wasn't tough anyway, but that was through the honing and shaping from a hard life. She was more affectionate by nature.

He didn't usually see her outside of working hours before. Sure, there had been the occasional occurrence when they would cross paths in the compounds of HQ, mealtimes or personal errands and the like, but other than that, their personal lives had always been rather separated. Something of a recluse, and only driven more in that direction from the sense of distaste given him by the general underground public, he usually avoided being where she was, because she was popular among that public – the one half of HUNTER's finest assassin pair that wasn't a freak of nature. Yet she had never ventured to seek him out much either. He'd always assumed it was because she was far too busy with her various boys to want to pay him any more attention than she had to; after all, he was the resident alien. It was when he'd overheard her break up with Dodson that he'd begun to wonder if this was a faulty assumption on his part.

I took this position specifically to work with Agent Weiss. The CELL project is the future, Brent – it has nothing to do with how pretty he is!

Subtle as it was, and however much she'd been denying that there was a relationship besides a platonic one, there had been something in her voice then, something a little wistful; as if she had wished the words coming out of her mouth were something other than the truth. Looking back on that night, the restless floundering he'd done in the place of sleeping, he realized, was his metaphysical reaction to hearing her call him pretty. Coming from Victoria, pretty was a pseudonym for downright gorgeous in a male. Coming from picky, uncertain, unsettled Victoria who could only land a man with an eye for causing havoc, it was probably the best way she could have made him understand what she thought of him – thoughts only echoed when she twisted in the generous, hotel shower stall to smile up at him with a bar of soap cradled in her palm.

Had she told him outright, he never would have believed her and most likely would have shut her out, avoided her, kept sullen and succinct. Not out of fear, perhaps, but because, at the time, business would have been his only priority. Neither vain nor needy enough to think the pursuit worth his time, he hadn't quite realized the implication made by her vehemence when defending him. Now that he'd picked up (and acted) on it, he half wondered whether she had used the Leveque slip-up to her advantage in knocking the sense through his unnaturally thick skull, because it had scared the liberal hell out of him to think she might have been captured or killed, and even more so that he may have had to silence her. She hadn't done so intentionally, of course, but it had definitely worked nevertheless. Whatever did the trick, right?

Her callused little hands rubbed him white with soap, a slick coating against his steel-enhanced skin, her palms smoothing over his chest and down his stomach, over his sides to reach for his back. Tilting his head to brush his nose against her cheek, he laid his hands against the slope of her thighs, listening to the quiet hum of her response before she told him, "you're awfully affectionate today."

"You don't want me to be?"

She promptly thumped him in the ribs. "I didn't say that, jerkface," she stuck her tongue out at him and set on his hair with a tiny fury, ruffling the wet black strands until the short-cropped back was spiky and stood almost straight up. "But usually I have to drag anything more than a grunt or a glance from you."

Fine lips curved upward into a small smile. "I'm in a good mood," he told her simply, shrugging mildly when she quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I believe it," she retorted frankly, "judging from last night, I'd bet you haven't had a good roll in years." Her cupped hands poured a measure of water over his head, rinsing shampoo from the rich black hair and flattening it against his skull; a dark companion to the deep auburn that clung to her cheeks and the nape of her neck.

For a brief moment he hesitated before asking, "did I hurt you?" He had been a little rough with her…

"Pfft, as if I can't take a little force—why does everyone treat me like a delicate little innocent?" Eyes narrowing, she scowled at him, but relented under his blank, still questioning stare with a little sigh and a wan smile. "It was nice to have a man in bed with me instead of some overconfident loser for once." He didn't say anything, but inside he felt rather accomplished. If nothing else, at least he'd given her something better than any of those weak-brained boys had to offer. That and a pretty woman had given him a generous compliment, which was enough to kick any man's ego up another notch.

He stepped out from under the water to leave her alone for a little while, though he departed with a gentle squeeze of his hand to her shoulder before grabbing the nearest towel and rubbing his hair to a reasonably dry state while brushing his teeth. Though part of him almost wanted to ask, he felt it unnecessary to bring it up now, because it was pretty obvious she hadn't just settled for a one-time fling with the closest man she could find. Firstly, that just wasn't Victoria. Secondly, she hadn't mentioned one word about regret, being disturbed, or cutting it off. Over the years he'd gradually accepted that she really didn't give a flying flip about his…condition, as if he was nothing more than an oddly physically gifted human like everyone else. There was nothing standing in their way, really, and very little would change. It was as if fate had just been waiting for the little push to make everything fit the way it was meant to. As if, all along, they had been supposed to mesh so closely.

Besides, she wasn't telling him to fuck off, which she would without remorse if that was what she wanted. Once when he'd come across her having a rather epic battle with an assignment subject who'd had her pinned to a wall and attempting to throttle her, he had stepped forward, meaning to help, but she'd managed to tell him quite plainly to leave her alone. He remembered vaguely wondering whether or not to ignore her…but by the time he had made up his mind to gut the nameless sub-target, she'd efficiently forced a cyanide pill down his throat. The man had been efficiently dead, she had been efficiently right, and he had never questioned her judgment again. If she wanted him to take a hike as far as any form of non-work relationship went, she would make sure to tell him loud and clear.

But she wasn't.

Somehow, that made him extremely happy. Almost as happy as she seemed that he wasn't abandoning her.

Leaving the towel in the bathroom since there was no longer any need to avoid being naked (she'd already seen it, among much more regarding his body), Rafael exited into the main room, heading for his bag and the promise of clean clothes, wondering idly when their next Contact might show up. The instant he got both feet on the carpet, he knew he wasn't alone. There were some perks to being a faux-human, and that was one of them, because it made sneak-attacks virtually useless. His senses sharpened upon programmed instinct, narrowing into the occupied corner of the room with a tightening of muscles and a snap of cold blue eyes. Within a split second he was reared to defend, braced and quite ready to lead the outsider's attention away from the bathroom and the relatively defenseless, unprepared Victoria, but nothing came. Until…

"Oh my god—you bastard!"

The attack came out of nowhere; and even though part of him had been expecting it initially, something inside him wasn't quite geared to hit back when the assailant was technically a comrade. Subconsciously he had let his stance go slack upon catching a flash of the familiar face, and having not expected Clarke to suddenly lunge at him from where he had been standing, awkwardly transfixed, at the bedside. With a rippling streak of teal, the blond man had crossed the room and launched himself right into the darker one's chest.

Blunt impact made loud noises, generally, and this incident was no different. Clarke's weight sunk into him, bore him back into the floor with a heavy thud muted only by lush, expensive carpeting, a solid punch to his face blocked by a lifted hand to catch the blonde's haphazardly-swung fist. True, he was the stronger, unusually so, but the man was no lightweight, and Rafael didn't really want to end up permanently damaging an ally by throwing the idiot into a wall or through the window by mistake. Instead of shoving him off, he bucked, once, hard enough to get a leg up between them and a shin propped against the flat of the attacker's abdomen to maintain a defensive amount of space. Grappling for Clarke's other hand; he found it and held on, wrapping his fingers around the other man's wrist and fighting for enough attention to focus on the scattered impact of the half-shouted words and not the flailing, ragged attempts to smash his brains in.

Clarke was spitting like a wildcat, hissing spurts of a sentence from between haggard gasps of sheer, explosive rage as he struggled against Rafael's unbreakable grip, thrashing like a madman in attempt to get a hand free with which he would surely crack open the other man's black-haired head. "You bastard! What'd you do to her?"

Do to her? What the devil was the moron blabbing about? Unless… He'd been by the bed, the floor around which was littered by clothing – night clothing, including a negligee, silk stockings, and a discarded lace garter belt. Oh, dear god. The boy thought he'd raped his partner.

He didn't get the chance to say anything; Clarke seemed to decide that his hands weren't going to get free, so he'd have to try something else. There was about three seconds worth of time to move before the blond head came hurtling downward, and Rafael shifted rapidly to put his shoulder in the way of the intended head-butt rather than his face. There was a hard smack, and it smarted a little, but probably not near as much as Clarke's head did right then. And honestly, the situation was growing a little stale, the initial surprise worn off to leave a shallow annoyance in its wake while Clarke cursed and tried to use his knee to crush in some of his ribs. Enough of this. It was just when he was about ready to throw him off anyway, to hell with risk even if he aimed for the bed, when the cold, solid click of a pistol's hammer being cocked the same time a matte black barrel was pressed to the back of Clarke's dirty-gold skull.

"Get off him."

Clarke went absolutely rigid, startled to the point of literally freezing under the pointed, warning weight of the gun at his head. He seemed about as stunned with relief to hear her voice as he was alarmed by the unspoken threat of the weapon, knowing very well that when a HUNTER pointed a gun at you, they meant business. Rafael loosened his grip so the blond could lift his hands and entreat, "Easy…it's me, Jacob Cl—"

"I don't care who you are," she snapped, and her tone was chilled with abrasive temper, annoyed that her personal time had been interrupted by a scuffle plus the added bonus that the newcomer had threatened her lover. "Get off my partner or I'll blow your fucking brains out."

The man moved faster than he probably had ever before in his life, scuttling away to give Rafael space and putting a good three yards between them before turning to give Victoria a look that ranged somewhere between hurt, pissed, and confused. She didn't seem to care; her attention had swept immediately down to Rafael, a silent inquiry pooling in her soft brown eyes asking him if he was all right, even though she already knew he was perfectly fine. Truth be told, he hadn't needed her to intervene, but the simple fact that she'd cut the stupid interlude short made him grateful, besides the fact that her defensive, and passionate, reaction was proof that she cared for him. He found it touching, and took her offered hand to help pull himself back to his feet with a stoic amount of dignity that would seem impossible for a floored man, and her eyes roved over him, searching for a trace of injury she wouldn't find – fondly, worriedly, concerned for her partner and infatuate.

Clarke didn't like that one bit. "What the hell is going on, here?" he raged, spluttering and slightly out of breath, shooting Rafael a disdainful glare before his pretty, Aryan blue eyes flickered to fix on Victoria. He did a remarkable job of keeping that gaze to a point above her neck, though it did waver once toward the fit of the towel she'd tucked in place around herself. Not that it helped much, because the hotel's towels weren't very broad, and it fit to her sweet shape like a close-knit sweater.

It was Rafael's turn to glower, a dark, brooding stare that held more threat than warning. Faintly surprised by the surge of possessiveness that caused his own blood to roil, he reached down and plucked one of his shirts from his bag and draped it over her bare shoulders, intending to shield her, at least in part, from the intruding eyes. Other men had no business with her, not now that she was with him. The blond actually took another step back from them, wary of the amount of sheer intensity that pierced him through in place of the blank mask Rafael usually wore with such indifference, subconsciously acknowledging the other man's claim of protection. Victoria didn't acknowledge either action, but she did readjust her grip on the Browning and threw her own glare toward the blond scout.

"What the hell were you doing?" she half-shrieked, lowering her volume upon happenstance realization that she didn't really want to be overheard. "How dare you attack a HUNTER! He'd have been within his rights to kill you for it, you idiot!"

"I thought he'd…" Clarke's hand stabbed an accusing finger toward the dark-haired assassin, which wavered when he caught sight of the woman's withering scowl. "Tori, I thought I was—"

She snorted, indignant. "What, protecting me? I am capable of taking care of myself, but apparently I'm the only one who knows that!" She tossed the gun to the mattress; clearly reading as Rafael had that they wouldn't need firepower to deal with him further, and crossed her arms over her chest, adjusting her stance to tilt her hips – adopting the typical I am going to be difficult position her partner new so well. "Look, Jacob—"

"You shouldn't be—shouldn't have…with him." Clarke's boyish featured marred with a contorted expression relaying that the caution hadn't come out the right way. He looked almost desperate, a grimace that bordered on the edge of pain, and it was then that Rafael realized the blond had something of a crush on her. It had started out as an outrage, but now this was a vent of jealousy, among whatever else. That made sense, at least why he had been so quick to jump to the offensive, and as to why he had been so physical with her before; he'd been pining. "I'm not judging, it's just…well, it's kinda taboo, isn't it? Besides—he's CELL. It's not natural."

For the first time since the accident, Rafael felt something close to shame for what he was; a cold crush in the pit of his gut, sick and low, like the lurch he got inside a descending elevator…because, in a way, Clarke was right. Not about the partner aspect, because that was bullshit. But he should have been dead five years ago after being dropped off the highway with his half his insides hanging out of his body. He wasn't even real anymore, not the way they were – all human and delicate. He was a fraud, a mocking of what human was supposed to be. But…she had always known what he was, an altered, reshaped military dog; and she'd never even hinted that it bothered her. She had let him kiss her for god's sake, and most definitely reciprocated when he'd pressed her for darker, deeper things. If Victoria didn't care, should he?

As if she knew what he was thinking, she reached out and laid her hand on his arm, her fingers curving with the shape of his bicep, her warmth seeping into him through the skin-on-skin contact. Though a little more calm than she was before, her overall demeanor was cold in regards to Clarke's confession, stiff because she found it offensive, because she thought the reasoning was nothing but bullshit. "Jacob," she asserted firmly, "I appreciate you looking out for me, but since last I looked, who I decide to sleep with is my choice, regardless of whether he's my partner as long as we can get our jobs done. And I don't care if he's the CELL prototype or an antisocial bum; you're supposed to respect my decisions."

Something inside that schoolboy-hero's face went out like a guttered light. Clarke looked like a kicked puppy, wincing under the blow of the almost blatant, undermined rejection in the form of her support and open affection for dark-haired, superhuman Rafael. He backed off immediately, ducking his blond head and awkwardly averting his eyes from the both of them, clearing his throat before quite determinedly changing the subject. "Um…" his voice broke and he coughed before trying again, "we filed last night's assignment and got some news." Adjusting his tie with a jittery hand, drawing attention to the fact that he was dressed in the HUNTER's uniform of specially-designed suit-wear, odd for a checkpoint scout. "Looks like the Führer's having an eighty-fifth anniversary celebration of the '44 victory over London. All his top officers are required to attend, right down to the SS generals."

With a spark of anxious understanding, Rafael glanced toward the little desk calendar positioned on the bedside table under the faux-china lamp, pale blue eyes resting on the little numbers counting up to the fifteenth. "Four days from now…"

A heady mixture of excitement and anticipation clouded the mood of protective irritation, his predatory nature boosting into a developed sense of delectation. It couldn't be possible. The current Führer had gone years and years without showing the beginning of his family's real reign over Europe, paranoia and the caution of his generals having been the prominent deciding factor to keep him from making an available target. Besides, even if one of Her Majesty's secret soldiers managed to make it passed the ridiculous amount of security to take him out, the Reich would just replace him. One wasp killed wasn't enough to wipe out the swarm, as they'd found out with the death of Friedrich's father, Adolph II; it just made them all the more determined to succeed. But now… An anniversary dinner with mandatory invites scaling down all the way to the common SS officers? The little Hitler brat must be feeling quite confident despite the steady descent of his soldiers into death's hands. Fate must be starting to smile on the rabble of rebellion.

Clarke nodded briefly, "Heidelberg Castle at eight-thirty. The Queen wants the two of you there before it's scheduled to start and kill him off, by the time you do and cause enough ruckus to get them nice and confused, we'll have enough HUNTERs there to take them down for good. With their leaders exterminated, the flunkies can be detained and the people can be free again."

There was a breath of silence just before a small commotion in the form of Victoria flopping limply, almost appearing boneless, to sit on the edge of the bed. "What—the Nazis…gone?" Her eyes had gone wide with a mixture of shock and elation to match the faint, choking disbelief that coated her voice. The two men watched her, looking on as she stared at the floor, seeming winded by the prospect; as if she could hardly believe what she'd just heard. "All my life there have been Nazis, and I've hated them just as long. And we get to put and end to them—us…" She lifted her gaze, tipping her chin upward to meet her partner and lover's steady, suddenly burning blue stare; burning with the same intoxicating notion that vengeance might finally be gained that she knew was flickering in hers.

The evil that had killed their parents, destroyed the freedom and justice that should have been their birthright, slaughtered thousands under a pretense of false morality…would finally be destroyed. At last. At long, weary last.

He reached out with one hand to touch her cheek, the back of his hand leaving a light, tingling trail of awareness downward to the slope of her jaw, noting the faint flush of pink that stained her skin. She wet her lips, a quick darting slide of her tongue that was simply fascinating. It was the only real reply she gave him, but it was enough to tell him he needn't bother redressing at least for a while. Celebration was called for…and what a delicious way to celebrate.

Clarke's eyes averted again, his own cheeks a little red with flustered envy, but he put on a brave face and a wide, open smile. The mood was feigned, and it was obvious, but apparently it was enough for him just to save face. "Cool, isn't it?" he chirped, a little too cheerfully to be real, "talk about making history!"

"Will we be getting maps and rooming plots, then?" Rafael's voice was low, devoid completely of emotion as he asked, looking toward the blond man for the answer as his hand fell away from her face to rest against her slim shoulder. Inside, he felt almost fit to burst with a dangerous combination of vengeful joy and rich desire for the proposed mission. To be the hand to strike down the Führer's bloodline…it was sure to be a feat worth more than all his efforts up until now, to make the surgeries and procedures worth while.

"Yeah, and guest-lists and guard schedules," Clarke told him, though he didn't meet Rafael's piercing eyes, "the techies will send you everything you need through the coms. So keep an eye on those and direct any questions you have to them. Ephraim and I'm heading out to the closest compound to the castle to wait for the big day, so you probably won't see us 'till then." He plucked at his waistcoat pocket, a little awkwardly, and shifted back toward the window through which he had probably entered. "Anyway, I'll get going, leave you two…alone."

Victoria offered him a small, absent smile as he backed off, not really paying the boy much attention, and with a light wave, Clarke ducked out through the open glass panels. Unfortunately for all three of them, Clarke was a scout, not a HUNTER, and not highly trained in the arts of stealth. He lost his footing and slid heavily just outside the window frame, causing quite the rowdy amount of noise before falling to land only slightly more gracefully on the ground below, and promptly booked it across the rear alley into the city maze. So, he'd done his part right – but left the two assassins to clean up the mess his lack of skill had created.

Eyes sweeping down to his partner's, Rafael glanced at Victoria's face to see she was thinking the exact same thing he was. They needed cover and fast, because someone was sure to have heard that and called for security to check it out, not altogether an irrevocable situation, but an awkward one that would require some acting, not to mention a good bit of self-restraint. She dove for her bag, grasping her little case of toiletries from the interior and whipping out a tube of light pink lipstick, a thin coating of which she applied with an almost comical speed right before he grabbed her, tearing the shirt from her shoulders and hoisting her up from the bed and right into the nearest wall.

When compromised; adjust the compromise to suit the mission.

A vague rule, but a good one; meaning, if you're about to be caught doing something illegal, make it look like the offense is something less than it really is. Generally speaking, a couple indulging in a little energetic exercise was a bit more tolerable to the authorities than harboring rebels in their hotel room; and since it was almost inevitable that they'd be questioned, might as well make it a good show of it.

It was deliberate noise, the hard smack of Victoria's half-bare back and shoulders to the pale goldenrod paint coating the wall, and might have sounded painful, but she took it without injury. Instead of appearing hurt by it, she reacted by releasing the loose hold on her towel and buried her hands in the dark, ruffled mane of his hair, twisting her fingers around the thick strands and wrenching his mouth down to meet the rough scrape of her small white teeth. He let her push him, rising on little toes to nip at his earlobe and feast on the arc of his throat, kissing and biting and licking a path down his neck and along one shoulder; and had to repeat to himself over and over that it was just for cover—just for cover…

To hell with it.

His war-stained hands peeled the towel from her body, tossing it to the bed with a shallow fwump to hide the gun lying so nonchalantly among the rumpled sheets, and the touch of her naked skin sent a rippling thrill down his spine. Heat pooled, hot and demanding and lush in his veins, thick like molasses, sharp like poison; and he gripped her by the head to hold her firmly in place, tipping back his head and reveling in the devastating graze of her open mouth to his chest. She could have driven him absolutely mad with that mouth, twisted and sugary all at once, leaving fire wherever she deigned to touch him, lapping with her tongue like a kitten only to sink her nails into his arms in time to the harder pulls of her incisors leaving his flesh tingling in her wake.

He yanked her back by her chin, crushing his mouth to her lips and smothering her with all the desperate craving he had to feel – some mutual addiction countered by wedging himself between the legs that tucked around his hips and pressed him into the cradle of her thighs. Catching her lower lip between his teeth, he tugged, almost gently, tracing the soft pink curve with the tip of his tongue before cupping her rear with his hands and shifting to half stumble, half lunge for the table, knocking over the spindly, heavy-backed chair in his haste with a solid clatter. Slinging her over the smooth wooden surface sent the greeting book and various assortment of pens and notepads scattering to the floor in a shower of paper, but neither of them cared. Rafael found himself quite busy enough by letting go of the feral groan to praise the agonizing friction of her naked flesh to be worried about a little mess. As for Victoria, she had quite forgotten the act – evident in the dazed slide of her palms down his neck to grip his shoulders, the clutch of her calves just below his buttocks, and the way she arched her back right off the table to let him fill his mouth with her breast.

A light tease with an explorative tongue was all it took to have her gasping, increasing the pressure and tremble of need to send it spiraling close to the point of anguish. Yet, for the lingering moment, it was enough just to look at her; eyes closed, head back, the mussed strands of her reddish hair a gleaming contrast to the flushed, rosy tint to her parted lips. The dreamy, blissful set to her face was so beautiful – the look of a woman being thoroughly loved, as she deserved to be. He never would have thought he would ever look at her this way…like a lover. It hadn't occurred to him that such a thing would happen, considering her bright nature countered to his rather dreary, emotionless outlook on pretty much everything. She seemed too attached to the boyish fops, romantic and flattering with all those handsome smiles just for her; and he had been too reclusive to see beyond anything but the exterior when they had both been suffering in silence. But it didn't seem to matter now, did it?

He could hear the footsteps coming down the hall, the knocking on each door, one after another along their wing, coming closer with every passing second, and knew that he'd have to get up and leave her cold to act his part. The thought that it would make them safe didn't comfort him. Damn Clarke and his ridiculous attempt to be sneaky – and damn him all the more for failing. He growled, the sound carried deep and rumbling through his chest and coaxing a delightful tremor from his partner. She made the sweetest little mewling noise then, as his hand slipped with the seamless shape from bottom to thigh, fingers venturing to such tender skin that the reaction wound every one of her sensitive feminine muscles tense and desperate.

His head lifted, a dark veil of crow-black hair shading crystalline eyes that brushed her face like a caress with skin, using his free hand to trace the curve of her mouth, torn between pure fascination and a bitter taste of regret directed hissing and angry toward the investigative security guards. Her lips closed around the tip of his finger, an alternation between sucking and tiny appreciative licks that caused his nerves to spasm and his entire body to stiffen against the primitive instinct to mate her like an animal, security be damned. For punishment, he crushed her downward, using a powerful press of his abdomen to tear a long, luscious moan of pleasure from her lungs. That would teach her to tease. Or…it would just make his blood boil even more when the knock came to their door, rapping and succinct and very much appreciated.

Just like a knife in the groin was appreciated.

With a muted snarl, he propped himself up by the elbows, lingering just long enough to touch a warm, open-mouthed kiss to Victoria's vulnerable bare stomach – her giggling light and somewhat joyfully scandalized – before pulling away and crossing the room. Not really caring that he was still completely naked with lipstick smeared all down his neck and crescent-shaped welts in his arms, he snapped back the locks and jerked the door open just far enough to give the guard a good view of his front. "Do you mind?"

A rather well-built man himself, the guard took one glance at Rafael and lifted his hands in a defensive warding position, universal sign language for surrender. "Sorry to disturb you," he drawled calmly, having heard the serious note of displeasure on the guest's voice and having the brains to find the dark-haired stranger intimidating. "Some kind of banging noise was reported by some of the guests on the lower floor. You don't happen to know—"

A slim, soft hand lined with trigger-calluses snaked along Rafael's upper arm, trailing downward until the slender female arm wrapped snugly around his ribs to clutch possessively at his chest. Victoria was too short to see over his shoulder on her own, just as she was too slim to be seen very clearly from behind the width of his body, but by using his figure for leverage and standing on her tiptoes, she just managed to set her chin in the juncture of neck and collar and give the now raptly focused security guard a curious look. "Hello there," she greeted sweetly, sending the stranger a pretty, flirtatious smile. "Sorry about the noise, my husband can be a little…enthusiastic."

"Ah—hem, right," the small, embarrassed cough didn't do much to hide the wistfully appreciative look the man shot her, and Rafael's eyes narrowed, his glare hard enough to have chipped steel. Nazi pig; it wasn't enough that they were foul by justice, they had to be foul by moral creed as well. Oh, but they'd get was they deserved all too soon. "Right, well…thank you for your cooperation—" the words faded, incomplete, with a distinct lax amount of attention on them, focused almost solely on the way Victoria's lips played along the shell of her husband's ear, her fingertips brushing Rafael's sleek dark hair out of her way while her other hand traced a slow, tantalizing circle pattern around one flat, male nipple.

Little vixen. With a snort, he gave the guard a sharp nod, a cold jerk that could just barely be called civil, and shut the door in the man's face before the bastard could start visibly drooling over his figurative wife and her flirting. "Was that entirely necessary?" She pouted, grumbling something about a lack of tea and withdrawal and that was what losers deserved for interrupting, slipping moodily away and turning as if to dress in a huff; but he snagged her by the waist and hauled her half over his shoulder to drop her very gently back on the table-top where she sprawled looked both puzzled and very charmingly innocent. "Where were we?" he mused, trailing his knuckles down the fragile expanse of her inner thigh down to the knee that bent quite submissively when he maneuvered her with a light shift of his wrist.

Her lip curved, her eyebrow quirking with a saucy little arch. "You had your finger in my mouth," she told him, hunching her shoulders like a girl and batting her eyelashes up at him.

"That's right," he agreed, but denied her when she made as if to reach up and kiss him, choosing instead to sink to a shallow crouch in front of her, the large, agile hands at her hips dragging her forward to bring her in range of some sweeter, savory treatment formed by a liquid meld of velvet mouth and marble palm.

"Oh—Rafael…"

He broke her twice that way, generous and downright playful, coaxing her right to the brink of pleading, whimpering madness before he simply couldn't take it any more, pinning her back to the smooth, strong oak table to have her one final time. For so long the idea of pleasure had been just that, an idea. Yet with her, it was so much more than just a concept grasped in the minds of the poets and dreamers, something he could touch and taste, which turned even just gathering the sloppy coordination to pick her up and take them both to the softer solace of the bed into something wonderful. She really had brought him to his knees, as he had lifted her back to her feet – and he really couldn't recall another time when he had felt so…happy.

"My birthday's in two days," she said idly while they basked, sprawled across the sheets, spent and warm and lazy with fulfillment.

His arm tightened around where it was loosely tucked about her waist, "I remember."

Turning over, she kissed him, her lips smooth and gentle at the corner of his mouth while her fingers threaded absently through his hair. "I'll be twenty-four…funny, I always thought I'd never get so close to thirty."

"You're not close to thirty," he argued, though his tone was rather devoid of much opinion either way.

She ignored it in favor of kissing him again, overlooking his deliberate reference to being older than she was, just as she overlooked so many other more important things. He let her, because it wasn't worth the fight. And really, there wasn't anything to argue about…except perhaps where it was he'd be treating her to an incognito birthday dinner.