Note: Happy Holidays!

Flashback...

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February 2012

The first time John taught me how to use a bobby pin to pick a lock, we broke into a custodial closet at the gym. It was all his idea, of course. Not that I was complaining. It was more fun that getting knocked on my butt.

"Oww," I groaned. I'd had enough of falling today, thanks. I was fine with staying down here where I was, flat on my back, staring upwards from the gym mat. One of the lights recessed in the gym ceiling was burned out. I wondered if anyone else had noticed yet.

John offered his hand. Irritated, I brushed it away and levered myself up off the mat.

"Not bad," he said. "You almost had me."

"That's what you said last time," I panted.

"You almost had me last time, too."

"Right."

"Let's take a breather," John said. He tilted his head towards one of the soft benches set against the wall, and I followed him. For awhile, I felt the smooth exercise mat beneath my feet, then thin carpet. I sat down next to John and crossed my feet at the ankle.

Suddenly, John got this disturbingly mischievous expression on his face, like he'd just thought of a really inappropriate joke, the kind that would've had Mama snickering. John leaned towards me. Instinct told me to scoot away to protect my personal space—but I didn't, because this wasn't some random guy on the bus, or a moron on the sidewalk, this was John, and how often did he get that close to me? Especially when his upper body was clad in nothing but a thin, black T-shirt?

"Ellie," he said, "you have something behind your ear."

I scowled and put my hand up to feel. "I do not."

He reached behind my head, and when his hand came back, he held a black bobby pin between his fingers.

"Nice," I said. "So you're part ninja and part magician, 'cause I don't wear those."

"You should."

I crossed my arms. "Oh? Why? You tryin' to say something about my hair?"

"No. But these make good emergency lockpicks." He bent the pin apart. "Better than a paperclip."

"Okay, Michael Weston. Now tell me how to rig a car to explode with a potted plant, a half-eaten yogurt, and a washing machine motor."

"Weston is alright," John said. "At least he knows his explosives."

"He's fictional."

"Details. Anyway...you see that door over there?" He nodded across the room to a completely innocent-looking wooden door with an industrial-grade silver doorknob. I knew what was going to happen next. John wasn't the kind of person to point out random doors unless they were going to get a good old-fashioned hardware hack in the near future.

Sure enough, a minute later, John was showing me how to pick the door's lock...with a hairpin.

As I worked at the lock with the makeshift pick, John said, "Now, I'm not saying your hair needs work or anything..."

"Good," I said, sticking my tongue out in concentration. "'Cause if you were, it'd be reason number four hundred eighty-six for me to kick your ass one of these days."

"...but you should really carry some of these with you. Preferably, in your hair. You never know when you'll need to pick a lock."

"To date, the only doors I've hacked have been your doors."

"Oh, this one isn't mine," John said, rapping lightly on the door frame. He peered back over his shoulder—the third time he'd done so.

I paused. "Don't tell me you didn't ask the gym first."

"Relax, Ellie. It's just a custodial closet..."

I rolled my eyes and kept working at the door. A few minutes later, my patience paid off—the lock clicked and turned. As promised, the door led to a room filled with cleaning supplies. Not the most rewarding payoff, and I said so.

"Just think," I said. "Now I can have a lifetime supply of bleach and air fresheners for free. Yep. Crime sure does pay."

"Cleaning supplies can be valuable," John said, somehow managing to give the sentence just enough of a mysterious touch to make me not want to ask for any details. "Now, let's try that door over there."

"You mean the one that says 'staff only'?"

"No, the one next to it."

"Oh, you mean the invisible door that doesn't exist."

"Yes."

I shut the custodial room door behind me and tapped my bare foot against the carpet, glancing up at John. "I dunno," I said. "The sign is there for a reason."

"Think of the sign as a...guideline." He held out another bobby pin, one that hadn't been bent out of shape yet. I chewed my inner lip and wondered if this was such a good idea. I mean, breaking into a custodial closet was one thing. Breaking into a staff area?

But then again...it was just a little ol' door...it wasn't like I was breaking into a bank or anything.

I grabbed the pin from John's hand, bent it like he'd shown me, and set off towards the door. John leaned against the door frame as I worked, shielding me from view of the hallway that led to the front desk. I could feel the amusement radiating off him, or maybe it was just the heat from his body...

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The next time we used bobby pins, it wasn't on a door lock.

As soon as I arrived at the gym, I could tell that something different was going to happen today. Maybe the little black nylon bag tucked beneath one of the benches at the periphery of the exercise room was a clue; maybe John was acting a little odd. Maybe it was that John himself led me back into the gym instead of the usual twiggish man at the front desk—the valet was nowhere to be seen.

Months ago, I wouldn't have even noticed that, but now, with John teaching me how to use the eyes and ears I'd been given, it struck me as strange.

"Where's Alfred Pennyworth?" I whispered as we entered the exercise room.

"Talking with Commissioner Gordon," John said.

I rolled my eyes and headed back to the changing rooms. I emerged several minutes later dressed in a tank top and a pair of gray cotton shorts. When I got out to the mat, John and I took our time warming up and then started sparring. By now I was really sure that something different was going to happen, because it felt like John was going easy on me. I mean, not enough to where I could get him down on the mat (I was still eagerly awaiting that day), but enough to where I could hold my own against him.

We sparred for maybe twenty minutes, then John suggested a break.

"Come on, we were just getting started!" I said.

"Are you relaxed?" John asked.

"Uh—yeah, I guess."

"Good. I have an idea—but you don't have to do it if you're not comfortable with it."

"Do what?" I asked him, perplexed. I followed him off the mat and over to the bench, the one with the bag under it. John sat down and picked up the bag. He set it on his lap but didn't open it.

"So what's the 'idea' that requires me to be relaxed and comfortable?" I asked. I narrowed my eyes and said, "If it involves turning out the lights, forget it."

"Not quite that, but right idea," John said gently. He tilted his head and said, "How much harder do you think it is to pick the locks on a pair of handcuffs than a typical door lock?"

It took me a second to process what he had just said. As soon as I figured it out, I felt a funny feeling seep into my stomach: the same nauseous trembles I got whenever I stepped near a darkened doorway, or saw a cargo container (especially a red one), or even thought about having my blood drawn.

"I—I don't know?" I said, swallowing. "Harder?"

"Actually, easier, if you know how to do it," John said.

"I...uh..." I wasn't sure what to say, but I was pretty sure of what was in the little black nylon bag now. Memories flashed before my eyes: waking up to find my wrists cuffed together; Tara grinning wickedly as she squeezed the garden shears with my pinky finger pinched between the blades; darkness, then the rumble of the car engine; Tara's harsh voice reverberating from the walls of the cargo container; the light of the headlights glinting off the steel cuffs that bound my wrists to the wall; the numbness in my hands as I struggled in the darkness; John throwing the cargo container doors wide and picking the lock on one of the cuffs in seconds; the caked blood on my wrists as John tenderly removed the other cuff once he had carried me out to the car; the breeze from the air conditioning drifting over my naked, overheated body...

I looked down and rubbed my wrists. The wounds had healed well. The doctor had promised that they wouldn't scar, but sometimes, if I looked real closely, I saw—or imagined—the faint outlines where the cold metal had bitten into my skin...

"I can teach you how to pick handcuffs locks if you want," John said gently. "But I understand if you don't want to right now." When I didn't respond right away, he added, "It might come in handy someday..."

I gulped and said, "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," John said, and he reached out behind my ear and pulled out a bobby pin. "We'll start with this. Most of the time, you wouldn't have a real lockpick to work with. So you should carry your own. It's easier than trying to find one while cuffed." He showed me how to bend it into the right shape, and he handed it to me. Then he unzipped the bag and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

Curiosity overcame the urge to cringe away. I made myself look. Nausea bubbled in my gut. Yep, those were handcuffs all right; metal and rivets and pure intimidation linked together by a short silver chain. The cuffs looked disturbingly robust.

John opened and closed one of the cuffs using a key, showing me how the double-ratchet system worked. Then he plucked the lock pick from my fingers, stuck it in one of the key holes, worked it from side to side, and several seconds later, the cuff fell open. He described how the lock worked, and then he reached into the nylon bag again and pulled out a piece of paper with a cutaway illustration of the lock mechanism. He pointed out various components of the latch on the drawing.

"It's easy, once you get the hang of it," John said softly. "Watch again."

He had the other cuff open in thirty seconds, which was probably a snail's pace for him. But it was still slow enough for me to figure out what he was doing.

Sorta.

He locked both cuffs again, then picked one of the locks a third time. Locked the cuff again and set the cuffs on the bench between us.

And then he handed me the lock pick.

I hesitated, then, slowly, I reached out and took it from his fingers. I gulped. My fingers brushed against the surface of the cuffs. They were icy cold. I didn't like touching them, even though the logical portion of my mind knew there was nothing to be afraid of—what were they going to do? Jump up and lock themselves around my wrists? John had the key. There was nothing to be afraid of. I could do this.

With shaking fingers, I picked up the cuffs, worked the pick into one of the keyholes, and spent the next few minutes battling the urge to vomit.

It took awhile to figure out the right motions necessary to unlatch the ratchet. As usual, John had made it look way easier than it was. I had to feel around with the pick to find where the latch was. John stayed quiet, for the most part; he only offered a few words of advice.

After a few minutes, I heard a click, and the cuff loosened.

"Very nice," John said.

"Let me try the other side," I said tentatively.

I managed to get the other cuff unlocked a minute or two sooner, but it was still an eternity of fumbling and scratching and picking compared to John's well-practiced movements.

John said, "Now you're probably wondering how to pick the cuffs if you're wearing them." I wasn't, not really—I was thinking about other things, like what it was like to be trapped in a roasting cargo container and how I wished Tara could've endured the same torment—but I stayed quiet. "It's not too different," John said. "It depends on which way the keyholes are facing." As he spoke, he casually unlocked one of the cuffs, slipped it around his wrist, and ratcheted it closed with the key. "Now, it's a lot easier if the keyholes are facing out, but with these types of cuffs, it's not much more difficult to pick the locks even if they're facing the other way." He unlocked the other cuff with the key and soon it was ratcheted around his wrist as well. He wasn't even looking down—he was looking at me. He held up his hands—now cuffed—and rattled the cuffs once, then motioned for the lock pick.

I handed it to him and watched, simultaneously fascinated and disturbed, as he stuck it into one of the keyholes and felt around for the latch. Several seconds later, the cuff fell open.

Just like that.

"A paperclip works okay too," John said. "Really, almost anything thin and sturdy will do. Do you know what handcuffs are for?"

"Uh, yeah," I said. "To keep somebody restrained when the police arrests them."

"Exactly—they're temporary restraints. Not a replacement for prison bars and locked doors and watchful guards. Handcuffs aren't meant to be inescapable—they're just meant to last long enough to get the bad guy to the station." He locked the cuff around his wrist again, then started picking the cuff on the opposite wrist. "When the police use handcuffs, the cuffs are always accompanied by a watchful officer. A skilled prisoner can easily slip the cuffs in dozens of ways, from lockpicking to dislocating their thumb. If they can find something to jimmy the lock, plus a little privacy for a few seconds..."

On cue, the cuff fell open.

"...they're much easier to slip than people think."

"Oh," I said.

"Now, some of the bad guys I've met know this. Most don't. In fact, most of 'em leave you alone and don't bother to watch you too closely, figuring that the cuffs will keep you subdued."

"And how's that work out for them?"

"Not too well," John said. "The ones that don't know how easy it is to escape from cuffs usually end up cuffed themselves. Somewhat poetic." John smirked, but a moment later, it faded from his face. Concern showed in his eyes. He held up the cuffs and said, "Do you want to try?"

Fear bolted down my spine. I stared at the cuffs.

"I have the key," John said. "Two of them, actually. But I understand if you don't want to do this."

"I...I'll..." I wasn't sure what I was trying to say. I was having a hard time breathing. But the logical part of my brain was whispering in my ear, saying things like if you meet another Tara in the future, you'll be better prepared, and this might save your life, and stop worrying, John has the key, it'll be fine, and all these other things that somehow didn't reassure me very much.

"All right," I whispered. I held out my wrists. My arms were trembling. Gently, John held my left hand and picked up the cuffs. I winced when the metal touched my skin. The sound of the ratchet was very loud in the silence between us.

"Maybe try just one first," John said as I fought down nausea. The cuffs dangled from my wrist. I stared at it like it was some kind of parasite that had attached itself to me. John put the bobby pin in my free hand. Taking a deep breath to calm myself—or at least, to try and calm myself—I stuck it in the lock. At first, my fingers shook too much for me to feel for the latch. It took a minute or so to regain my dexterity, and then a small eternity to get the cuff open. I exhaled shakily once my wrist was finally free.

"Not bad at all," John said. "Speed comes with practice. But I've seen many foolish guards leave prisoners alone for at least that long."

"So, I should hope for inept captors," I said. Damnit, even my voice was trembling.

"That always helps," John said. He held up the cuffs again. "Do you want to try both wrists, or stop now and get back to trying to kick my ass?"

"I...sure, I guess," I said. I took a deep breath and held out my wrists again.

Having one wrist cuffed wasn't too bad. I could take that. There was something strange about the way John ever-so-carefully closed the ratchet around my wrist, something almost erotic about the cold steel and his warm hands. But that feeling was quickly driven away when the cuffs were closed around my other wrist. I stared at my hands in horror. I could barely breathe; it felt like someone was squeezing my chest. John handed me the pick. I had to focus hard on getting it into the keyhole, and it took several tries. My fingers wouldn't obey me. I tried turning the pick, but it slipped from my fingers and fell to the carpet beneath the bench.

"I'll get it," John said. He bent down and felt around for the pick. I was too terrified to speak. John seemed to be taking an impossibly long time to find the pick, and breathing was getting harder and harder, and it sounded like there was a freight train roaring in my ears—and then I heard Tara's voice, whispering poisonous things about how she wanted me to suffer, and I just couldn't take it any longer.

"J-J-John," I stuttered, feeling very sick, "take t-them off, p-please. I can't do this."

I didn't have to ask twice. Before I had even finished speaking, John had the key in his hand, and a moment later, the cuffs fell to the bench. I looked away.

"S-sorry," I said, rubbing my wrists. "I just—"

"It's all right," John said, patting my shoulder. "You did good." He snagged the cuffs with his fingers and dropped them into the nylon case. The keys followed, and a moment later, the case was zippered shut. He tucked it under the bench again. I sat very still until John gave me one of his looks and said, "You still in the mood to kick my ass?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, sure. Just—give me a minute."

"Okay," he said.

I felt better when we got back on the mat, even though John had me on the ground in minutes. But later that night, I found myself lying awake in bed while the scene at the gym played itself over and over again before my eyes. I didn't fall asleep until three AM.

When I dressed the next morning, I put a few bobby pins in my hair. Just in case...

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