One step closer.
He waits patiently outside her door.
--
Furiously, she tosses her towel on the floor and tugs on her jogging clothes. She slams the door shut behind her, arching an eyebrow at him.
'Well?'
He chuckles. 'Follow me.'
Three right and four left turns later, he motions towards an enormous gymnasium.
'This,' he says simply, 'is where I train. After you.'
Marvelling at the sheer size of the hall, she steps in gingerly, knowing that all the equipment before her must have cost a fortune. She catches him smirking at her approval, and groans inwardly. Of course he's filthy rich.
'Please proceed to the middle of that blue mat over there.' He shrugs off his coat, placing it carefully on the ground.
'Afraid you'll ruin that?' she smirks.
'Hardly.'
His eyes ice over. She exhales.
'Begin.'
She throws the first punch. Big mistake. He anticipates it, smoothly deflecting it with his open palm. Furious, she lashes out with a kick that was supposed to connect with his chin. He ducks and his smile makes her want to throttle him.
'Is that the best you can do?' he asks, and she hates herself for succumbing to fury. She breathes in deeply, willing her anger to subside.
Focus.
'Stop talking and fight me,' she snarls. Surprise flickers across his face. He moves in with a punch aimed for her jaw. She sidesteps easily at the very last moment, kicking him hard in the abdomen. He grunts in pain but is quick enough to avoid her determined punch. A well-timed kick knocks her off her feet and sends her sprawling on her back. Gasping, she rolls out of the way—his punch barely misses her. She leaps to her feet, panting and ready for more.
More fast kicks and vicious punches. Some hit him, some don't, few seem to seriously unsettle him in the least. His blows are muted—she can tell—and it enrages her. Blinding frustration disorients her and she knows she's getting careless—where is he? Too late. Pain shoots up her arm as he twists it behind her with practised ease and pushes her onto her knees. His breath is warm against her ear.
'You're not ready, Sydney.'
Breathebreathebreathe breathe.
He releases his grip and she falls on all fours, gasping. Sweat drips from her chin. Polished black shoes step into view.
'Now what?' she says grimly, picturing various scenarios. Packed suitcases, maybe. Plan B. One-way ticket to limbo.
'Breakfast,' he replies simply. Steady hands help her up.
She's too damned tired to protest.
--
He offers her a towel and ointment for the bruises. She takes the former and brusquely declines the latter. He expected just that, and the sullen anger that radiates from her.
'Not all is lost,' he quips. 'A bit of training and—'
'Save it, Sark.'
He suppresses a smile.
--
The dining hall is huge.
He makes his way to the head of the long mahogany table, where breakfast is already served. She walks stiffly in the opposite direction, intent on sitting as far away as possible from him, but he grasps her by the wrist and pulls her along with him.
'No running away. Sit next to me—please?'
She scowls, not bothering to whip her hand away. His fingers feel distractingly smooth.
When he's not trying to kill her, that is.
'Are you afraid of catching some contagious disease?' he asks mildly. 'I assure you, Sydney,' he smiles, sitting down, 'I'm perfectly healthy. You could take my word for it, or see—'
'Oh, be quiet.' She sinks into her cushioned chair, sighing.
He motions towards the food. 'I trust you'll enjoy breakfast?'
The heady scent of good coffee wafts from her cup, the omelette looks delicious, and so do the jam tarts, scones and the slice of apple pie.
'Looks decent enough,' she says, prodding cautiously at the omelette with the ornate silver fork.
He bursts out laughing - uncharacteristic, and almost…charming.
'I'll be sure to send the chef your compliments.'
'Whatever,' she mutters, trying very hard not to smile.
--
Small talk has never been so momentous.
He makes her laugh by the time she's halfway through the omelette.
--
'What an incredible waste of time,' he comments.
'What is?' She dabs at her mouth with the embroidered napkin
'All those years fighting each other. If I had known breakfast conversations with you would be this enjoyable, why, I would have given up my evil ways and joined the CIA.'
She chuckles. 'I've saved you the trouble, haven't I?'
He touches his chin, nodding thoughtfully. 'Thanks for that. I don't think I could cope with offices that bland.'
Laughing, she knows she should be horrified by the entire situation.
She isn't.
--
He remembers to be gentle when she brings up the topic of revenge.
'How do you know…how do you know who killed them?' Her voice is steady, but he knows what lies behind the pseudo-calm.
A maelstrom he plans to harness.
'I have my sources. All reliable, of course.' He sips the last of his coffee.
She nods, and the movement is awkward. He watches her slowly tear her gaze away, tightening her hold on the napkin.
'Will you—will you help me find them?' So softly he can barely hear it.
'I mean, it would be fine with me if—' She stops. Takes a deep breath. 'I would really appreciate your help with the mission.' Her voice breaks off and she forces herself to look up.
He maintains his steady, cool gaze, but she looks away, sighing softly.
'Forget I asked.' She pushes her seat back and gets up quickly. He's out of his chair and standing behind her before she can move any further.
'It would be my pleasure to work with you,' he says softly, 'Agent Bristow.'
She turns, and he sees the surprise on her face. After a moment, she says simply, 'Call me Sydney.'
A smile—utterly unreadable—and she's gone, jogging down the large corridors.
He sits back down, satisfied, and slightly unsettled.
Phase one, complete.
--