Chapter 9

Monet was confused. And, as usual, Irina was the cause. But this time, it wasn't because of her continuous denials; it was because it was perfectly warm in the dungeon, and she had her arms wrapped around herself, chattering as if she was stranded in Antarctica in the middle of winter.

"Irina, are you alright?" He asked concernedly.

"F-F-Fin-n-ne," she replied, looking anything but.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Monet. "Let me feel your forehead, Irina."

"N-N-No."

"Please, Irina."

Even when she felt like she had gone skinny dipping in a frozen lake, Irina couldn't say no to Monet's big, blue, pleading eyes. Not when they were so caring. Sighing, so as to show just how reluctant she was, she scooted closer to Monet, turning her head to face him.

He lightly pressed his hand against Irina's forehead, and drew it back a couple seconds later. "Irina, you're burning up!" he exclaimed, alarmed by just how hot she was. "Does your throat hurt?"

Irina shook her head much too quickly; she was obviously lying. "Is your nose stuffy?" Monet inquired.

The Lucian was about to shake her head again when, right on cue, she sneezed, spraying snot all over the cell floor. She groaned; how embarrassing!

"Yep. You're sick," Monet decided. "Come on; let's get you back to bed."

Irina shook her head stubbornly. They were going to work on reading faces today! It was an essential lesson; why would she let being sick get in her way?

Monet seemed to read her mind. "We'll do the lesson another day, Irina. I promise. Isabel Kabra wouldn't make you go on a mission when you're sick- you wouldn't do nearly up to standard- so there's no way you're going to practice when you're sick. Now, off to bed. Come on."

Grudgingly, Irina stood up, still chattering, and Monet led her to her bed, keeping a firm grip on her wrist. Once they reached it, he gently helped her sit down, and then knelt in front of her, his eyes raking over her carefully for any sign of a cut. The last thing Irina needed when she was already sick was an infection.

Though he could find no cut of any kind, he did notice how very thin her short-sleeved T-shirt was. It's no wonder she's cold, he thought, watching her rubs her arms up and down each other in an attempt to keep herself warm. In a split-second decision, Monet took off his own long-sleeved black shirt and held it out to her.

"N-N-No, I-I c-c-couldn't," Irina chattered, pushing the shirt back towards Monet while focusing all her energy on not looking at his magnificently toned chest.

"Yes, you can, and you will," Monet insisted firmly, pushing his shirt back towards her. "Don't worry, Irina; I'm perfectly warm, even without a shirt. You're sick, and you need to keep yourself from getting too cold. That T-shirt of yours is made for keeping cool; it's no help to you here. Just put my shirt on over it; you'll be much warmer."

Irina hesitated for a second, and then thrust the shirt over herself. Monet was right; she was much warmer now, even if she wasn't as warm as she would like to be yet. She snuggled into the shirt, breathing in Monet's scent (not that he had to know).

"Better now?" Monet asked, a hopeful light sparkling in his eyes.

"Y-Yes," Irina nodded. "Wh-What brand i-is th-th-this? I-It is comf-fortable."

"Gap," Monet replied. "It's an American brand. Everything's really comfortable- just like that- and really inexpensive. If you ever go to America, you should go to the store. You'd like it, I think."

"M-M-Maybe I w-w-will," Irina said, almost thoughtfully. She then yawned, her mouth stretching wide open like a cat's, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stay awake. Monet smiled.

"Go to sleep," he said gently. At Irina's expression, he assured her, "Don't worry, I won't be offended. Take a nice, long nap. You need it."

He didn't need to tell her twice.

XxxxxxxxX

When Irina woke up, she looked down and- to her surprise- saw a blanket draped over her. Not to mention her throat wasn't sore anymore, though her nose was still stuffy, and a box of tissue rested next to her on the ground. She sat up, a bit confused, wondering if she had somehow been taken back home while she was asleep. Looking around, she saw that she most definitely hadn't been; but then, how did she have a blanket and tissues?

"Oh, you're awake!" Monet jumped up from his own bed upon seeing Irina sitting up, looking marginally better, albeit a tad befuddled. He rushed to her side, ready to help her with anything she needed. The Lucian looked over at him with an almost bemused look on her face.

"How is this blanket here?" she asked. "And the tissues?"

Monet smirked proudly. "I conned the guard out of them. It took awhile- there's a really bad storm outside, according to him, so he wanted the blanket for himself- but it was clear that my shirt wasn't enough to keep you warm."

Irina looked down and saw that she hadn't imagined how sculpted her companion's chest was after all. Her heart fluttered, skipping a few beats. She suddenly found her mouth dry, and she licked her lips to wet them again, still staring at his chest.

Monet smiled amusedly as Irina almost subconsciously gazed at his chest. I knew working out every day would pay off eventually, he thought.

Deciding to be a good person, he snapped his fingers to get Irina's attention. "Irina? Irina? Earth to Irina?"

Irina looked back up at Monet's face abruptly, a bit startled. She blushed beet red; judging by the twinkle in Monet's eyes, he had noticed her staring. Fiddlesticks, she thought, using a phrase that she had heard from an American pole-vaulter once.

"Like what you see, eh?" The words came out of Monet's mouth, accompanied by a wink, before he could stop them.

"You wish," Irina retorted, narrowing her eyes at him. Thank God that Monet taught me how to mask my emotions, she thought with relief.

"I don't wish, I know," Monet retaliated with a sly grin. "I have to say, by the way, you're an excellent student. You grasped the skill of hiding your true feelings perfectly."

Drat. "I am telling you my true feelings!" Irina exclaimed, her tone indignant. "I do not 'Like what I see', as you put it!"

"Sure you didn't," Monet drawled disbelievingly. However, he saw no point in continuing the discussion, so he changed the topic. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Irina admitted, much more at ease with this subject. "I am not as cold anymore, and my throat no longer hurts. But I still have a stuffy nose."

"So you're still not one hundred percent," Monet said, nodding slowly to himself, almost thoughtfully. Thanks to the storm outside, the lights briefly flashed on and off for a second. "Well, then I'll just have to nurse you back to health, now won't I?"

"That will not be necessary," Irina replied. "I will recover on my own."

Monet raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

"Very. I-" Irina was cut off by the sudden feeling that she had to sneeze. Really, really badly. Monet noticed this, too, and quickly grabbed a tissue and held it against Irina's nose just as she went, "AH-CHOO!"

"Quite an impressive sneeze, if I do say so myself," Monet commented, tenderly wiping the snot away from around Irina's nose.

"I can do that," Irina said. "I know how to use a tissue."

"I'm aware of that," Monet replied. "I want to help, though."

"But why?" Irina asked. "Why do you want to help me so much?"

Monet's eyes were endless and full of meaning as he locked gazes with Irina. "You know why."

"Monet… there is nothing there," Irina declared, sounding part exasperated, part desperate. The lights in the dungeons flickered again; in the back of her mind, she registered that the storm must be worsening, and that, with any luck, they would take out the cameras' power. "It- it cannot be, you and I both know that."

"That doesn't mean that nothing's there," Monet muttered quietly, leaning in to wipe up the last bit of snot from Irina's nose. This position, however, meant that he was practically on top of the woman, and his chest was directly in her line of sight.

She gulped, forced in close her eyes in order to keep her composure.

"Well, can you blame me for not wanting anything to be there?" Irina snapped, her voice quiet, yet harsh. "Can you really? Everything about this is wrong; it would not work, not a bit of it. We are in a cell, for crying out loud, and what we should be focused on is escaping this dratted place. Not to mention that you're so wrong for me; I am a Lucian agent. I am Irina Spaskaya. I am a former pole vaulting champion. You know everything about me, and yet, I know next to nothing about you!"

"You want to know the truth about me?" Monet asked in scarcely more than a whisper. Irina opened her eyes to see that he was no longer leaning over her, and his blue eyes were boring into hers, as hard as stone.

"Then I'll tell you. My name is Fiske Cahill, and I'm not a Lucian. I'm not a Tomas, or a Janus, or an Ekat, either. I'm a Madrigal. When I was twenty-one years old, I was studying at college to be a painter when I supposedly went missing; in reality, my father made me start training to be an agent, forcing me to abandon all the dreams that I treasured throughout my childhood.

"As I already told you, one of my sisters is Grace, and the other is Beatrice. Grace was the one who raised me; Beatrice couldn't have cared less if I was alive or not. When I started my training, Grace was the one person from my former life besides my parents who I was allowed to keep contact with. In fact, she helped to train me, being gentler and more effective with me than my parents ever were when I was a child. She's the secret to my success as an agent, and now, I am the best of the best.

"Nowadays, my full-time occupation is working for the Madrigal branch. I paint only in my spare time, of which I have very little. My special skills are stealth, fighting, manipulation, and acting. I am a bit like a Janus, I suppose, except not as stupid as them." A brief hint of a smile flitted across his face. "Well… that's it. I've told you everything."

And indeed he had. Every single detail about himself that he had kept secret from outsiders for years, he had now revealed to an enemy agent. All for love.

Love is the greatest weakness mankind knows, he thought solemnly.

Irina was silent, absorbing all the information she had just heard. She knew, without a doubt now, that Monet- no, Fiske- trusted her, cared for her, loved her. It was impossible for her to deny it any longer, now that he had just told her everything there was to know about him, in full confidence that she wouldn't tell- which she wouldn't, of course.

She wouldn't betray the man she loved, even if he was a Madrigal.

She couldn't find the words to tell him- not right away. For a moment, she stared at him, while the lights flickered on and off repeatedly, threatening to turn off at any second.

"I love you," she said finally, staring straight into his eyes, the three words simple, but filled with so much meaning.

Fiske's eyes lit up, and he tenderly put his hand behind her head, pulling her in for a kiss.

And then, the lights went out.

YAY YAY YAY! Are you as happy as me right now? I sure hope you are! PLEASE review! Otherwise, I won't know if you liked it, if you hated it, what I need to work on... anything! Seriously, you can even flame me, just review! Please!

Thanks!

-Joelle8