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He's been here before, in this world where down feels like up and his guts leap to his throat. He's been in this world of dizzying, desperate desire for someone to just grab the controls and fly. There's no alarms this time, no frantic dash, no one telling him that he has it handled, that he needs to be more confident, that they're all going to be okay, but it's the same. They're falling straight from the sky—falling, falling, he can't fall. Not again. He's been here before and he doesn't know, doesn't know, doesn't know what he'll do if he has to go through this crash again.
Except, no. No, Gordon has been here before.
Gordon crashed, Gordon killed, Gordon felt his body shatter. He is not Gordon, not Gordon, not Gordon. He is Agent Gerad Jonquil. He feels nothing. Nothing can hurt him. He cannot be Gordon—will not be Gordon. He is Agent Gerad Jonquil, and Gordon is weak, and Gordon must be killed.
There is a single blink that separates the two of them. That's all it takes. A single blink kills Gordon and bring Gerad back into power, except, not really, because they aren't falling anymore. In fact, they aren't even flying. The roar of the engines is replaced by the curl of the wind and he's stationary. He looks out of the front of the craft, sees green forests instead of blue skies. Can't seem to remember when they landed. Can't seem to remember anything. It's not a single blink, no matter how quickly it seems to have happened.
He needs a smoke.
And he reaches into his pocket for his box, but he finds that in the same amount of time that it had taken him to blink, his jacket has been removed, his tie undone, and he's sweating through the black of his unbuttoned button-down.
"Looking for these?"
The Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward has always been, as far as he can tell, strikingly and unfairly gorgeous. This is by no means her greatest weapon in her war waged against the world, but it is one she wields obscenely well, nonetheless. Both of them know exactly what game she plays, leaned up against the pilot's seat, white clad, legs long, holding up a golden box of sweetly soothing nicotine, but Gerad's greatest weakness at the moment is that awareness of the facts does not reduce their effectiveness. "I need…" he manages.
"You need to get off my aircraft," she tells him.
This does the trick, pulls him right out of that confusion that tends to follow these long blinks. "Your aircraft?" he says. "Tsk, tsk. You really think just because you steal something, it's yours?"
"Let's call it finders-keepers," she says. "Or if you'd really like, we could use that fancy legal jargon your people so thoroughly enjoy—unrestrained obtention of relevant materials as they pertain to the needs of The Cause."
"That special authority has saved lives and you know it, you spoiled, dainty little heiress—"
"That special authority is so broad that it has no choice but to save lives, meanwhile it simultaneously destroys countless others, you arrogant, brainwashed prick. Calling it a success is comparable to aiming a hundred flaming arrows at a target, missing all but one, and calling out bullseye as the entire archery range goes up in flames."
"Of course you would use archery metaphor. Tell me, did your rich daddy help you with that one?"
"No," she says. "Yours did."
Because that's her greatest weapon. Not the long legs. Not the hair. Not that smile that makes the world stand still. It's that wit. She's sharp, and more than that, she's sharp when no one expects her to be. For all her skill and all her knowledge, Penelope's greatest weapon is, by far, the naiveté of her onlookers. "Now then," she says. "Off. We have guests waiting for us."
"Guests," says Gordon, and it comes out as something of a laugh even though he can't seem to find it funny. "Where'd you take me this time, Pen? Italy? New York? I always wanted to visit the Eiffel Tower."
"You have visited the Eiffel Tower."
"Somehow I just don't think it's the same when there's a vengeful blonde chasing you through the streets with her pistol in tow."
"Well. Call it a debt repaid for the time you left me behind in Sri Lanka with those rampant elephants."
"Was Sri Lanka really my fault?" he tries. "Or was it really your fault, for trusting me with wild elephants in the first place?"
"Still your fault," she says. "You valued information over the life of your partner."
"Temporary covert assistant," he corrects. "And you would have done the same thing."
She rolls her eyes, tosses the cigarettes into his lap. He slips a slim from the box, sets it between his lips. Already he can feel his shakes beginning to cease. He feels the grit of the matchbook, lights it, watches the match burn down to a stub until his fingertips can't take it anymore and his reflexes take over. Match goes flying. The Lady stomps it out.
"Well," she says, quiet. "At least I know who I'm dealing with. Nice to see you again, Agent Jonquil."
He holds his hands out to each side, tada, grinning as wide as he can with the cigarette in his lips. His words get squeezed between the flame. "The one and only."
As she studies him, he can't help but feel as though he's on the wrong side of the microscope. He's sitting on glass, Penelope looking down on him, and if she looks too closely, the whole thing is going to shatter. "Are you coming?" she says. "Or should I just wait until the next time you black out and drag you up the mountain myself?"
A shiver. He's tired of these shivers weaseling their way into his spine. "Where are we?" he asks again.
"Undisclosed location," she says. "I can't have SPECTRUM knowing where all of my safe houses are, now can I?"