The Offer

Disclaimer: I don't own The Avengers, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Set during the season four episode Quick-Quick Slow Death, in-between Steed and Emma's defeat of the villains and the tag scene.

Author's Note: I've always loved the warm, friendly, mutually respectful dynamic between Emma and dance instructress Nicki. And Nicki herself is such a fun, generous, savvy character who deserved better than her lousy job at a school that was just a front for criminal activity. So I thought an upbeat resolution for her character was in order.

This fic is one of three stories that serve as quasi-prequels for another, longer story that I have in the works. But it can also be enjoyed as a standalone.

This story is dedicated to Eunice Gayson, the first-ever Bond girl, and the actress who played villainous dance school principal Lucille Banks in the episode, whom we lost recently.

Emma cut the thread with her teeth, and surveyed her handiwork with a certain amount of satisfaction. "There you are," she declared, cheerfully patting Steed's lapel. "One tear, invisibly mended. Your deposit is saved!"

"Much obliged, my dear," Steed enthused, smoothing the now-flawless cloth with an expert touch. "Tailors around the land salute your resourcefulness and skill."

"One never knows when a needle and thread will come in handy," Emma demurred, tucking said accoutrements discreetly away in the bag she'd left next to Lucille's desk for the duration of the gala night. The desk itself was now sitting askew, and some of the tinsel streamers put up in the office for decoration had come loose and were drooping sadly. The decorations had certainly taken the worst of it in the fight, aside from the fighters themselves, who were now strewn untidily about the place, detracting from whatever remaining glamour the decorations were still managing to exude. Emma crossed her arms as her eyes flicked from one unconscious form to another. "Should we prepare them in anticipation of pick-up, or will your people prefer them unpackaged?"

Steed slid off the desk and straightened his tie. "It would be rather inconvenient if they leapt up for another round of the paso doble before we'd had a chance to speak with them," he acknowledged, snatching up the telephone receiver on Lucille's desk. "Miss Banks has kindly provided us with a telephone. I'll contact our friends. You see to the packaging."

"I'll need something a little more substantial than this," Emma opined, once more brandishing her deposit-saving spool of thread. Steed grinned at the reference and they went their separate ways, both quite clear on what they had to do. They'd danced this particular dance several times before, and while it was rather less-exciting than the official 'curtains down' denouement, in which they defeated the diabolical mastermind of the hour, it was still necessary work. Emma made a beeline for the office's decorative curtains, always a good bet where tying accoutrements were concerned, and stripped them of several lengths of thick, braided, tasselled rope with great efficiency. Loaded for bear, she set about restraining each unconscious man or, in Miss Banks' case, woman, relieving them of their masks as she went. Emma had had quite enough cases of mistaken identity for one night, and was happy to look each of her antagonists in the eye—even if those eyes were currently closed.

She was nearly finished when the burble of voices outside the office door reminded her that there were still perfectly-innocent dance pupils on-site. "Steed!" Emma exclaimed, turning to where the senior agent was engrossed in conversation, hands cradling the telephone receiver. He met her eye and covered the mouthpiece with one palm as she continued. "I'm going to take care of the pupils. I've finished here."

Steed nodded in understanding. "Thank you, Mrs. Peel. I'll keep an eye out at this end."

Emma nodded smartly and made for the office door. She opened it as little as possible, taking care not to allow anyone a view over her shoulder into the room beyond. It wouldn't do for someone to see the bodies littering the office floor. She closed the door hurriedly behind her, but was surprised to find that the ballroom was deserted, despite the burble of voices still ringing in her ears. She crossed the ballroom quickly and soundlessly, threw open the door, and leaned inquisitively into the foyer beyond.

Nicki stood at the dance school's entrance, nodding and smiling as the last tulle-clad figure quit the room. "I'm so sorry we've had to cut the evening short," she was saying. "I'll be sure to contact you as soon as our perfectly sprung floor has been…resprung." She shut the door behind them with a certain amount of finality and let out a long, relieved breath, before turning around to return to the ballroom. She stopped short when she saw Emma. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't see you there."

Emma nodded imperceptibly. "You dismissed the pupils?" she inquired, even though it was obvious from what she'd witnessed.

Nicki nodded, patting her updo tiredly. "I heard the commotion, and worked out that whatever was going on wasn't going to be remedied in time for the students to receive their competition ribbons." She eyed Emma inquisitively. "Something has happened?"

Emma nodded and moved to join Nicki. "I'm afraid the dance school will have to be closed," she told her. "It seems Miss Banks and her fellow Terpsichorean enthusiasts were using the school as a front for…illegal activities." Emma had signed the "Official Secrets Act" and couldn't tell Nicki what, exactly, Lucille had been up to. She only hoped Nicki wouldn't push for any more details. But Nicki, for her part, only shook her head and pursed her lips in annoyance. Emma canted her head quizzically to one side. "You don't seem surprised."

Nicki snorted. "The hours, pay, and working conditions in this place were already criminally bad. I'd be shocked if Lucille didn't take things one step further and go all the way."

Emma's lopsided smile was knowing. She hadn't worked at the school for anywhere near as long as Nicki, but her sore feet and sorer constitution had made her feel as though she'd been in harness for decades. Lucille was a monster who preyed on the vulnerable and lonely, even leaving aside her penchant for murderous espionage. If Emma hadn't already suspected Lucille was up to no good, her time at the dance school alone would have given her as jaded a perspective of the school's principal as Nicki's. "Well, you'll be happy to know that she's overbooked you for the last time."

"Good riddance," Nicki grumbled, then seemed to realise that this sudden turn of events had grave implications for her lifestyle. "Will I still get my wages for this week?" she inquired, with well-disguised anxiety. "If the school's closed?"

"Some people will be arriving very soon," Emma said carefully. "They'll be…taking care of things at the school. They'll give you your wages. I'll see to it personally."

Nicki was suddenly wary of her one-time co-worker and confidant. "You're not a dance instructor at all, are you?"

"Not officially," Emma temporised, wincing slightly. "Though after my time here, I now have the calluses of one."

Nicki's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What are you, then? Some sort of cop?"

"Something like that," Emma said vaguely. "Unofficially."

Nicki still looked suspicious. "What are you 'officially' then? And don't say 'officially unofficial.' It's been a long night."

"I've never been particularly enamoured with officialdom," Emma confessed nonchalantly, artfully deflecting the question. "As soon as you affiliate yourself with any one organization or profession, people try to limit you. And I don't like to be limited. I prefer to be free to explore whatever interests me, irrespective of whether I've acquired a membership card."

"Dabbling's all well and good," Nicki muttered, hugging herself self-consciously. "But some of us have to earn a living." She looked hard at Emma. "The dance school's never going to re-open, is it? Even once your officially unofficial friends have left?"

Emma shook her head sadly. "I don't think it will. I'm sorry."

Nick dropped her arms in resignation. "I should have known," she groaned. "Trust me to work for the one criminal dance school in the country. That's me on the dole queue come Monday morning."

Emma regarded Nicki with no small amount of compassion. By all rights, she knew she ought to be suspicious about the woman's role in the whole operation. After all, she hadn't suspected that Chester Read was anything more than a drunken sot, but the bandleader had turned out to be as much a part of the plot as anyone. Nicki had seemed to be in the dark about the whole scheme, too, but Emma knew that could be a cover as well. And yet, Emma's instincts told her Nicki was the one innocent caught up in the scheme-a poorly-paid, harassed prop used to reinforce the school's legitimacy. Besides, she'd been responsible for Bernard from Piedi's presence at the school, and if Nicki had been in on Lucille's plot, she would have known the risk he posed by coming into contact with clients who had been swapped for enemy agents. No, she was certain that Nicki was genuine—a genuine casualty of her and Steed cracking this rhythmic spy ring wide open. And that was a shame, because Emma liked Nicki. Emma may not have been a genuine dance instructor, but for all intents and purposes she'd lived the life in her time at Terpsichorean Techniques. She'd worked the same long hours as Nicki, suffered the same aches and pains, humoured the same tedious men as they placed their hands in inappropriate places and then begged ignorance when they were swatted away. She'd suffered the same nagging from Lucille, and the same advances from Ivor. All for a wage that was scarcely adequate for the work, pain, and suffering endured.

So Emma felt some sympathy for Nicki's plight, but sympathy did no one any good at all, and really, Emma admired Nicki rather than pitied her, and not just for her fortitude in the face of a grim career stretching ahead of her. Emma knew many women who would not welcome a new co-worker—at best, they would see her as someone to sluff their unwanted work onto; at worst, they would perceive her as a potential competitor to be undermined at every turn. But Nicki had never made catty remarks to Emma, never tried to undermine her in front of Lucille, or used her to avoid inconvenient clients. She'd been nothing but helpful from the start—showing Emma the ropes, filling her in about the workings of the school, warning her about particularly clumsy pupils and difficult staff members. She'd offered to cut Emma in on her dance shoe business, rather than threaten Emma to prevent her from telling Lucille that she'd been making a bit on the side. She'd even given Emma tips on how to care for her poor abused feet after a lesson, in-between cheerfully inane chit chat on break, and she was always up for a mid-class commiseration about a particularly woeful pupil. It was rare to find a colleague so willing to be a friend and an aid, rather than a hindrance, particularly when she was less-than-enthused with her current lot in life. But Nicki had been a good friend to Emma, and a resilient one in spite of her circumstances. And it was high time her hard work and kindness were rewarded. And anyway, Nicki had shown remarkable resourcefulness in setting up a sideline in dance shoe sales to supplement her income. She'd seen an opportunity to get ahead, if only a little, and she'd seized it with both hands. It was a rare quality, and, Emma thought, one to be recognised and encouraged.

"I may not claim to be very many things officially," Emma began, making for the small table in the foyer that contained a telephone and a pen and pad. "But I am officially the owner of a business." She scribbled a number on the pad, tore it so that the heading reading 'Terpsichorean Techniques' was left behind on the pad with no small amount of pleasure. She turned back to Nicki. "I could use someone like you. You're intelligent, hard-working, entrepreneurial, loyal, and you know how to handle yourself." She handed Nicki the paper. "If you're interested, ring that number and tell them I sent you."

Nicki was looking from her to the piece of paper and back again, before her eyes widened in shock. "Wait a minute, you're that Emma Peel."

Emma shrugged casually. "Take as much time as you need. I shan't be offended if you don't accept." She gestured to the dance school. "I know you might not want to leave dance behind."

"Dance can take a flying leap!" Nicki exclaimed with feeling. "I'll ring this evening. Thank you."

"My pleasure," Emma said with a smile. "Some men are going to arrive very soon to ask you some questions. You're not in trouble. Just tell them who you are and what you know."

"Sounds simple enough." Emma watched in amusement as Nicki turned to the mirror in the foyer and checked her updo. "After lying to students about the proficiency of their foxtrots for years, it'll be a refreshing change to tell the truth."

Emma laughed. "I hadn't thought of that. Will you be all right on your own? Only Mr. Steed is my co-conspirator, and I've left him in charge of the entire nefarious two-stepping staff."

"I thought he seemed like a cut above our usual clientele," Nicki opined, turning to regard Emma with a twinkle in her eye. "Hey, does that mean you and he-?"

"I suppose you could say we're partners-officially unofficially, that is," Emma said airily, one hand already on the door knob to the ballroom. She disappeared inside before Nicki had a chance to inquire further.

"Whew!" Nicki's eyebrows climbed sky-high. "Some girls have all the luck." She looked at the piece of paper in her hands, reassuring herself that the numbers were still there, then tucked it down her décolletage. "First things first," she decided. "Maybe some of the ones coming to ask questions will be just as…interesting as Mr. Steed." She made sure to refresh her lipstick, just in case. A whole new world was opening up for Nicki, and she was determined to seize it with both hands.

End