Hello lovelies! Sorry for the delay. Thank you so much for the reviews! Seriously! All kinds of input I hold very dear and help me grow as a writer, but they also help me approach this story from different views. You are all awesome. I would also like to thank Kiss My Quill and theladylove for being my awesome Betas. Round of applause for them!

Hope you enjoy, I had a lot of fun writing this chapter…

Fire Meet Gasoline

The silent tension in the Dining Room soon eased as Kennedy, a quiet man who turned almost scary during missions, surprisingly pushed out the empty chair next to him to provide a seat for Lancelot.

After that, the introductions were quick and neat, save for when Washington glared her down and forced her to apologize to Galahad and Lancelot in front of everyone, which of course wasn't an apology at all and was cut off mid-sentence by Adams. Galahad's grin irked her, but she ignored it.

Percival, however, seemed un-phased as he asked the question "So, what is your cover, exactly?"

"We have none, Agent." Washington said, "Nothing as impressive, I dare so say, as a tailor and weapons shop combined.

Ana and Dylan shared a look.

It seemed that the American branch had done more research of their UK counterpart than vice versa.

"May I, sir?" Ana asked, and Washington gave her a short nod.

She gave a nod back and turned to her guests.

"We run… differently here than you do back home. This is Los Angeles, after all, so the unusual is mostly seen as another day in the city. Additionally, the United States is more… diverse, not to say that the UK is any different… however the States are much… bigger. Therefore, we don't use a main cover; we have our own to make for specific missions throughout the nation, specified to the State or area."

"What about suits?" Lancelot asked, and Ana grinned.

"That's where we've lucked out. The most American piece of fabric is denim; that's where our outfits come into play."

"Jeans, shirts, jackets-"

"And dresses-" she intervened.

Roosevelt smiled. "And dresses… all made to be bulletproof, breathable, the perfect outfit we need when on mission, save for the fancier parts of it. For that, we usually borrow from the New York branch."

"New York branch?" Galahad and Roxy sat up, both staring at Ana, who cleared her throat and looked down.

Washington also cleared his throat. "There are separate branches in the major cities: us, New York, Chicago, Phoenix, the likes. However their branches aren't as large in scale as ours, and have even fewer agents."

There was a stretched out moment of silence before Ana cleared her throat again.

"Plus, no one suspects someone in a pair of jeans, do they?" Ana asked rhetorically.

Arthur nodded, giving a smile.

"Levi Strauss would be proud."

Adams escorted Arthur and the others out to show them to their rooms – thankfully a floor below from her own – before Washington gave them a stern 'we are hosts so act like it' speech. He sent a final steely look at her before dismissing them.

The four agents at home lingered in the hall, Ana peering through the doorway to see Washington and Adams confer over the table. There were small projectors under the glass table, making information visible to the naked eye for viewing. From what Ana had read of the UK branch, they'd need glasses to view information on their own table.

She frowned. The four that were here wore glasses. Were they… recording them?

She felt Dylan nudge her softly and turned to the rest of the group.

Hoover, the epitome of a 'dude bro' only gave what he probably thought was a charming grin as he said "I call dibs on the Lancelot chick," and then gave a leering look to Ana before walking away.

Kennedy sighed, scratching the back of his head. He was tall and bulky, kept a trimmed beard and buzzcut of thick black hair. He was a man of few words and was somewhat frightening during missions – precise, quick, lethal, and brutal – sometimes unnecessarily. Because of that, and the fact that he was an ex Navy SEAL, everyone, even Washington, gave him a wide berth because he did what it all came down to: he got the job done.

He met her eyes, and she raised an eyebrow – something she did every time she met his cold gaze, and something that each time made the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Call me when Lancelot beats his ass," he said before leaving.

Ana turned to Dylan, also known as Roosevelt, curious to what he was going to say. To her surprise, he had a slight frown on his face.

"Washington's right. Whatever happened between you and Galahad – it needs to stop."

She only stared.

He stuck his hands in his pockets as he continued.

"You told me yourself, Galahad also made contact with Marsha… that's probably the reason they're even here, why you're still here and not fired. Remember that their branch was the reason V-Day was even stopped-"

"Yeah, I remember," she snapped as she walked away.

"At your six, kiddo!"

"At your six, old man," she muttered loud enough for him to hear her.

Once she reached her room she changed into her workout gear, needing time in the training room. Beating at a punching bag sounded better than a bubble bath right now – which meant she was in more trouble than she thought.

She had almost made it to the room undisturbed, but it was only wishful thinking when she heard a distinct demeaning tone call out her name in the hall.

Her hand tightened on the strap of her small tote bag holding water, towels, and an extra shirt as she kept walking and ignored the voice calling after her.

Hoover was a bulky guy, one of the newer additions two years after she joined, replacing an agent who had retired. And he was a complete asshole. Even his real name, Brock, was almost a precursor to his personality; the jock type that people learn about in high school cliques, and he lived up to his name. He had curly blonde hair and thick brown eyebrows with a soft face and equally soft and fragile ego. She wondered every day why he was an agent – had even asked to watch the interview process footage – but was denied.

"Heard you've been a bad girl, Lincoln," she heard him say, his footsteps quickening to catch up to her. She could see the doorway to the training room when he grabbed her arm. She stopped and turned, pulling her arm from his grasp as she glared at him.

"I like bad girls, Lincoln," he continued with a voice that he probably considered suave.

"Go fuck yourself, Hoover. Save the female population the trouble," she said, turning to walk away but he grabbed her arm again.

She turned and grasped at the wrist holding her, twisting the skin as she kicked her foot out to strike at his knee from the side.

Hoover yelled out and dropped to his knees as she expected; his grasp loosening as she stepped away.

"I thought we've been through this, Hoover. Your disgusting paws are to never touch me. How many times does this need to happen for it to register in that pea sized brain?"

Hoover stood up quickly and advanced on her, stopping inches apart as she stood her ground.

"I can do whatever I please, bitch, and I know there's nothin-" he was cut off when a hand grasped around his neck and pushed, Galahad shoving him against the wall.

"You'll do well enough to listen to your colleague, bruv," Galahad said, his voice dark and threatening. Ana could only blink, a part of herself angry that she didn't even see him coming, the other wanting to know what would happen.

Hoover stared at Galahad, another ugly grin appearing on his face as he shoved the arm on his neck away, taking a step forward.

"She ain't a colleague, bruv," he said mockingly, "she's just the fat bitch that cheated her way into this agency."

Galahad started to speak, his voice raised, but when she laughed he stopped, turning his head to her – but her gaze was on Hoover.

"Wow, you're still buds with Thomas, aren't you? Such a chip on that weak shoulder," she said, remembering him from the group of recruits that she was in. He had the same mindset as Brock: I'm big and strong; I belong here.

He was one of the three to be sent home after the street race.

"You-" Hoover started as he took a step towards her, another nasty look on his face, but Galahad stepped between them, stopping him.

"I'm here because I earned it," she snapped, in anger at not only Hoover's behavior but also at Galahad's unnecessary help, "I didn't fuck up like your friend. He's gonna have to live with the fact he can't drive. If he wants to spew bullshit – then he'll have to live with being a sore loser. That's got nothing to do with me."

She stepped forward and not so elegantly nudged Galahad out of the way as she stared Brock down.

"However Washington won't be so pleased to hear that Thomas has violated his NDA," she said, smiling as Hoover's eyes grew wide. The NDA all new recruits were required to sign removed the typical heavy lawsuit proceedings in favor for a more extreme punishment. You blab, you die.

"I'll keep silent - if you'd like, but we do the race on our own. See who actually belongs here."

Hoover stayed silent, glancing at Galahad and then back at her.

"I'm not the one who needs a bodyguard," he said, shaking his head. "And you're half an agent, can't even use a fucking gun anym-" she cut him off with a quick punch to his throat.

Hoover coughed and fought for breath as his hands came to his neck. He reared up, ready for a fight, but then looked at the two of them. He shook his head, coughing and muttering as he flipped the bird and walked away.

"God, what an arse," Galahad muttered as Hoover turned the corner, his echoing footsteps fading. He turned to Ana, raising an eyebrow. "You 'kay?"

She kicked out again, hitting his knee like she had done with Hoover. He yelled out as he fell onto his knees, looking up at her.

"I can take care of myself," she seethed, ignoring his utter look of surprise as she walked away – needing to punch something more than ever.

She was giving it her everything; small shouts and grunts emitting from her as she let it all out onto the punching bag. Sweat dripped down her face but she kept at it, throwing kicks and punches as Kanye West played from her workout mix.

She had to train twice as hard and twice as much as the others to stay in shape, but it seemed her body was made for the weight she was at. No matter what she did, she never went below double digits in clothing size.

For her, her weight was a double-edged sword: one edge the insecurity and self-consciousness, littered with teasing and harassment from strangers and fellow agents, specifically Hoover, the other edge being her advantage; no one expected a 'chubby' girl to be an agent. No one expected it when she knocked them on their feet, or shot first, or even caught and tackled them during a chase on foot.

As for the beating she was giving the punching bag now, it was a mix of things. Her screw-up in New York – not taking out Galahad the instant she had the chance so as to get away smoothly instead of starting this fiasco. Hoover saying what she'd thought every day since she was given the go ahead from the psychologist after agreeing to use tranq guns: she was only half the agent she used to be. Then there was Galahad himself, giving Hoover more ammo than he already had against her.

Her reputation in the agency was independence.

She'd been appointed and effortlessly executed solo missions. The other agents were wary to train hand to hand with her. And Dylan was the only one who actually bothered getting to know her.

Only a few agents knew she used tranquilizer darts instead of bullets. Those agents, except Dylan, didn't want to go on missions with her. That had tampered her reputation, but it was still standing.

With one move and a couple of words, Galahad had toppled her reputation over and ground it into dust.

She yelled out as she gave a rapid set of jabs, ending with a roundhouse kick, the chain from the punching bag tinkling with the force.

She pulled back, keeping her arms up as she caught her breath when she saw a figure enter the room from the corner of her eye.

She expected it was Dylan so she kept at it, punches here, kicks there, keeping her yells and grunts under control – he always teased her about it – but she stopped mid-punch when her music was cut off.

She turned and blinked when she saw it was Galahad.

He'd changed into grey sweats and a white tank which showed his sculpted arms.

He tilted his head as he kept her gaze.

This oughta be good.

Her arms dropped and she walked to the nearby bench as she took off her boxing gloves. She kept the small strips of gauze wrapped around her knuckles as she grabbed her water bottle and took a few generous gulps of water, using a hand towel to wipe sweat off her face, chest, and arms.

"Didn't know Jawbreakers held so much pent up anger. Thought they were a candy - nice and sweet."

"What the hell do you want, Galahad?" she asked, staring down at her almost empty water bottle, trying to catch her breath silently. She already disliked him; she didn't want to hurt him even more if he gave a lame insult towards her weight.

"That bloke… Hoover… he always such a twat?"

She let out an unexpected laugh but then shook her head, capping her water bottle. She leveled her gaze as she finally turned towards him.

"Thanks to you, he'll be unbearable now."

"That was bearable?!" he asked, crossing his arms.

She sighed.

"What do you want, Galahad?"

"Just curious," he said. She rolled her eyes and returned to the punching bag, leaving her gloves behind.

"It killed the cat. I'd be careful," she muttered, throwing a few soft punches and a kick – without the gloves, she couldn't go full power without making nasty blisters.

He walked forward and held the bag for her.

She stepped back, shaking her head.

"What do you want, Galahad?" she repeated yet again.

He smiled.

"Well, I was thinkin'… ya said you can take care of yourself. And ya even offered to train… So how 'bout round two?"

She stared, her fingers curling up into fists.

"Round two?"

"How 'bout it?"

She titled her head, looking him up and down.

"I'll pass," she said, walking back to the bench, shoving her water and sweaty towels into her bag. She had just zipped it closed when he spoke again.

"It's the least ya could do."

She stopped and turned, crossing her arms.

"I owe you nothing-"

"Ya cheated, and we both know it. C'mon," he said, taking a step towards her, making her tense up, "a fair fight. Round two."

She stared at him for a long beat before turning back to her bag, unwrapping the gauze from her hands. He asked for a fair fight – he'd get one.

She turned back around and caught his grin, making her falter. She then grinned back as she reached down to grasp the hem of her tank drenched with sweat, and pulled it over her head, leaving her in only her leggings and sports bra. She tossed the shirt aside as they walked towards each other.

Her plan worked: he stared down at her chest.

"Hey," she said casually and he looked up, his eyes slightly out of focus, "Eyes up here buddy."

Her arm swung into an uppercut, hitting his chin; his head threw back, his body following as he stumbled away.

She immediately returned to her fighting stance, lightly bouncing on her feet as she watched him regain his composure, acting stupidly as he mindlessly charged at her.

She turned at the last second, clasping her hands together and raising them in a joined fist, hitting down hard on his back as he moved past her.

She had wanted to throw him off his feet, but he kept his stance and only stumbled again, this time letting out a growl.

He turned back and that's when it turned into a real fight. Hands and feet flew: blocking, attacking, unexpectedly meeting body parts with each other as they both tried a move. Sometimes she landed a hit, other times he got the better of her and landed a punch or two himself – and the fact that he wasn't holding back because she was a woman had her grinning as they sparred.

He made a confusing move, acting as though he was punching her in the chest but instead his other hand shot out to her stomach, his foot kicking at her side, sending her spinning to the ground. She caught herself on her hands, pushing off the floor to roll away and jump right back up, trying to commit that move to memory.

"Holly?" he asked, his breathing a little heavy. They'd both been at it for a couple minutes now.

She froze, turning to look at him as he reached an arm up to point on his own back shoulder where her tattoos were.

"Fan of Christmas, are we?" he asked.

She let out a yell as she advanced, fists flying; he barely had the time to block one or two of them, but the rest of her punches became hits, pushing him back towards the wall.

When she and Natalia both turned eighteen, they got matching tattoos. They were Christmas babies - Natalia was rightfully named so by their real parents, the ones they never met; as her name translated into 'born on Christmas'. Ana, known as Anastasia to only her sister, was given the name that meant 'loving' which coincided with the holiday, even if it didn't have such a direct connection. They both got a sprig of holly tattooed when they turned eighteen, each a different design. When Natalia died, Ana got her design right below her own.

"There's two different designs, why's that?" he asked as he swung out his leg but she blocked his kick and jumped back, bringing her fists up again and landing a few hits to his gut. He coughed but actually laughed.

"Oh, so they mean somethin'?" he asked, blocking her next punches and delivering a push kick she was too late to block. She stumbled back, keeping her footing as she brought her hands up again.

"Maybe I like the plant's poisonous qualities," she snarled, taking a step forward and delivering a side kick, but he reached up in time to grab a hold of her ankle.

They stopped momentarily, their eyes meeting as she stood on one foot, her leg in his grasp. She moved first, trying to pull back but he was just as fast, pulling on her leg and then jumping; they spun in the air and landed hard, her head hitting the ground as his body fell on top of hers.

Her breath left her and she gasped. He lifted himself off her slightly, alleviating some of his weight, but his hands moved to grasp her wrists.

"So, Christmas girl, what's with the tats?" he whispered, their faces inches apart, accepting victory.

She relaxed in his grasp, letting out a deep breath, putting on what she thought was an great performance as she acted hurt.

He fell for it. The second she felt his grasp on her wrists loosen just a smidge she moved, bringing her leg up to give a kick to the back of his head before pushing on the ground to turn them over so she was on top. She landed a punch to his jaw and moved forward to hold his hands down like he had done to her, moving her legs to lock his down so he couldn't budge.

"Christmas is for suckers."

He let out a laugh and sighed, his body relaxing, as though finally accepting defeat, but she kept her guard, her grip tight.

"Such a contradiction… is ya name Holly or something? Is it a regret that ya got when you were eighteen?" he asked.

She tightened her grip on his wrists, her fingernails digging into his skin. His eyes widened, but kept her gaze.

"Oh, so she likes it rough?" he asked.

She yelled out and brought her head down, hitting the crown of her head between his eyes.

She blinked her eyes, only lightly thrown off guard at the move.

"Shit," he mumbled, "so the tattoos are a no talk subject, then?"

"It only took you until now to realize?" she asked in a condescending tone.

He blinked some more, still reeling from the head-butt, but shook his head.

"Your trick to distract me with your tits didn't work out like ya planned, did it, luv?"

Her face twisted as she yelled out again, releasing one of his arms to throw another punch to his jaw, and for extra measure his neck, hitting him straight on his Adams apple like she had done to Hoover earlier.

His body convulsed under hers as he choked out, his free hand coming to his throat as his eyes closed.

"Lincoln!" a sharp yell rang throughout the room.

She looked up to see Adams and Arthur standing just out of the doorway, both with their arms crossed and both with a stern look on their faces.

She scrambled off of Galahad and jumped to her feet.

"Oh, hello!" she said as Galahad let out another cough or two, moving a little slower as he got to his feet. "We were just… uhm, conversing," she said pathetically, knowing what they had seen.

Adams walked forward, stopping right in front of her.

"You're lucky you're already grounded, Lincoln."

"Sir, it was me, I offered a fight-" Galahad started.

"When training hand to hand our agents use protective gear, and she knows that," Adams said, turning to Galahad. "Are you alright?"

Galahad only nodded, letting out another small cough.

"Just peachy. But it was still-"

"Lincoln, dismissed," Adams interrupted, not looking at her.

She sighed and smartly kept her mouth shut as she went to grab her bag, moving to the other end of the room to grab her discarded tank top before leaving, giving a curt nod to Arthur.

Who, to her surprise, was wearing a faint ghost of a grin on his lips.

Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia