"Baby I'm a house on fire

And I want to keep burning

I'm going up in flames

And you're to blame,

Yeah, you're to blame

Baby I'm a house on fire

And I want to keep burning. . ." - Sia, House on Fire

"What should we toast to?" I asked, raising my glass and extending one to her.

"Uh, should we be drinking on the job?" She asked, but took the crystal flute anyway.

"We have about six hours of travel, and it's just a little champagne. And I got the impression you weren't really a stickler for rules, Sameen."

"Good point," she snorted. "Bottoms up then!"

"No! Wait, wait Miss Patience of a Flood," I laughed. "We have to find something to toast to first. You pick."

"I don't know. Work?" She crinkled her brow in a sweet scowl at me.

"Really? That's all you can come up with? Honestly, Sameen, I'm a bit disappointed. I thought you'd be a little more fun than that. There is more to life than simply work."

"Not in my life there's not," she said and something about the way she said it made me sad. I told her as much and she said, "Look. You read my file. You know I have a diagnosis. It's part of what makes me a good asset. I don't feel things the same way other people do. Joy. Fear. Sorrow. It's all the same to me. Work gives me the closest estimation of what other people might call passion. I like puzzles and I like to solve them. It's why I enjoyed medicine, but it's also why I made a shitty surgeon. I didn't necessarily care about the human on the table in front of me, just about fixing their parts. And please. Don't give me that face. It's nothing to feel sorry for me about, unless you want to piss me off, and then by all means feel sorry for me. Anger I do. Anger I like because it usually leads to violence, and violence is about as close as I get to having fun."

"I see," I said. She was like a little robot with those razor words firing out of her plum painted lips and those tiny fingers making air quotes around every other word. "And I absolutely do not feel sorry for you, but there must be other things you enjoy in life besides work and violence."

"Food, fucking, and fighting," she huffed, settling in her seat. She smiled and it was ravishing and devious the way her teeth emerged and shimmered against her mouth. "So how about we toast to tacos and donkey shows? I mean we are going to Mexico, right?" She held her glass up in front of my face and I could tell she was testing me, being provocative to see what I would do with it.

"Has anyone ever told you that you are just precious?" I asked. She had just taken a big gulp of her champagne and she choked on it.

"That is probably the last word anyone would ever use to describe me," she grumbled. She wiped at her mouth with her hand.

"But you are," I said, lowering my voice and leaning in closer to her. "Absolutely precious." I took a sip of my champagne. I was so close to her ear, I could have stuck my tongue out and licked her soft-looking lobe. It was tempting.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're just crazy?" She turned her face so our noses were practically touching.

"Of course," I replied. I held her gaze until she finally shrugged, looked away, and sipped her champagne. We both reclined in our seats. I'd splurged for first class tickets and they were worth every penny, I thought, lying back with her by my side. I sighed. "I've been called crazy many, many times."

"Figures," she said. She stretched and drained her glass. I took a peek at my watch. The sodium pentathol I slipped in her champagne would take about twenty minutes to fully kick in, so I dreamed up some small talk (that is, small talk which wasn't too girly) to kill the time before I could get to the important stuff. I was so close to her, I could feel the warmth of her body radiating onto my own. She'd taken off the light sweater she'd had over her black tank top, and I admired the silky flesh of her bare arms. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to poke one of my fingers in between her dark lips, feel her teeth and tongue on my own flesh. I wanted to get my fingers tangled in that thick, black ponytail, twist it around my fist, pull her head back and bite the delicate skin over her neck. I wanted so much and so fast. It was surprising and very natural all at once.

"So, do you speak any Spanish?" I asked her, swallowing hard to digest my desire before it got the better of me.

"Nada," she said. "I speak German and some Iranian. But I'm a fast study. Part of my charm to the CIA was my ability to pick up language."

"Bueno," I said, wondering if the drugs had taken effect on her quicker than I'd expected, or if I had miscalculated and slipped her more than was necessary. She was more chatty than she usually was. It was fun to hear her voice, to hear her reference other parts of her life. Of course I knew a good deal already from reading the file I'd nipped from a desk in an office in a building someplace, but hearing her talk about herself was an unexpected treat. Maybe she hadn't eaten breakfast and the drugs were easily absorbed in her empty stomach. Either way, I was enraptured.

"Have you ever heard of quantum entanglement?" I asked. I felt like a fool, but I was a little breathless, almost giddy with being so near her.

"Can't say as though I have," she replied a bit sleepily.

"Well, it's the theory that we start thinking very intently and intensely about someone because they are thinking of us as well. It's a spiritual engagement of sorts, a manner of souls meeting their mate throughout space and time."

"And you are telling me this why, exactly?" She had closed her eyes, but opened them to look at me dubiously.

"I can't help but wonder, Sameen, if you have been thinking as intently of me as I have of you."

She leaned in close to me, so close I could smell the champagne on her breath, and feel the little gusts of air as she spoke. "You have the weirdest way of flirting, Mrs. Groves-Finch," she slurred.

"Oh, you haven't been subjected to even the half of it, Sweetie," I whispered. "And please, call me Root. I insist."

"Fair enough. Root." She tripped over the 't' at the end of my name. Her eyes rolled a little bit and she inhaled sharply. She tried to sit up, but struggled in her seat against the weight of the drug coursing over her body. "What did you-" she started.

"Relax. Just sit back and relax."

"No. I feel strange. What did you put in my drink?"

"Nothing at all. Perhaps the altitude is just enhancing the alcohol. Or maybe you get a little nervous when you fly? Really, relax and it will pass. We can hold hands if you'd like." I extended my hand to her. She pushed it away, and leaned back in her chair. "Thatta' girl," I said as she settled. I waited for a few more minutes before her breathing slowed, before saying, "Tell me about Northern Lights. What was 'Catalyst Indigo'?"

"Negative," she mumbled. Her eyes were closed and her head was back.

"Come on, Sweetie. Tell me about Northern Lights. They killed your partner, right? Tell me about the one they call Control."

"Not gonna' happen," she said and turned her face.

"Cole, then," I said. "Talk to me about Cole."

"Nope." She opened her eyes and looked at me with a dazed smile. "From the way my muscles are relaxing, I am guessing you used a barbiturate in my drink. Sodium Pentathol maybe? Now, for other people that may be a truth serum, but for me it is just very sedating. Guess they left that out of my file. Nighty night."

She turned her head away from me, and fell asleep with a contented, little smile on her lips. After a few moments, I realized my mouth was hanging open like a fish. I closed it and suppressed a giggle. I indulged in another glass of champagne, and I'm not ashamed to say I watched her sleep for the better part of the flight. I may have even leaned over her to sweep her bangs off of her face, to press a kiss onto her slightly parted lips, and to whisper, "Beautiful girl," into her ear as she slept.