Hello all! Just a disclaimer since The Golden Circle is now in theaters: this story is not connected to the sequel in any way. This is my own take on the 'Statesman'. (BTDubs what did you guys think of the sequel? To be completely honest, I've got mixed feelings…)

Thanks to my beta's: Kiss My Quill and theladylove.

Also, Gemma, I f*ing love you. Thank you.

Please review!

New York, I Love (Hate) You

She slapped his hand away as it curved around her waist for the umpteenth time while they waited for their luggage at JFK.

"Just playin' the part, dear," he whispered close to her ear.

"You're my flavor of the month. My flavors don't do PDA, dear," she snapped, smiling at the sound of Luggage Claim powering up, suitcases soon rolling down the belt. They stood together, him trying to sneak his hand around her waist yet again.

It was as though he enjoyed getting on her nerves.

She just walked away, feigning that she saw her suitcase, but he followed close behind.

"What are you afraid of, Holly?" he whispered.

She froze, this time not paying attention as his hand rested on her hip, tucking her body into his.

"What did you just call me?" she asked breathlessly.

"Well, seein' as I don't know your name yet - which by the way is weird, don't ya think? - that's what I'm gonna call you."

She took a deep breath, settling her face into a blank expression before turning to look up at him.

"According to my various forms of identification, I'm Natasha. You'll call me as such," she seethed.

He titled his head, but shrugged.

They turned back to the luggage claim and saw their suitcases.

"Let me be chivalrous, Nat, for-"

Without thinking about it she quickly turned and hit three pressure points on his chest, making him gasp and freeze, his face wincing in pain as he coughed out his stolen breath.

She leaned up and whispered in his ear, for effect of any onlookers, but her voice was steel when she spoke.

"Call me that again and it won't be a tranquilizer dart pointing at your 'goodies' next time around. And trust me, I won't hesitate to pull the trigger," she said stiffly before walking away and grabbing her suitcase off the moving belt, ignoring his request at chivalry. He came next to her, grabbing his own case, thankfully staying silent as they walked towards the exit gate.

"There," he said, nodding towards a stout man with a receding hairline holding a sign that read 'Finch'. She plastered on a smile as they approached – at least Galahad got the message and didn't try to put his arm around her waist again.

"Call me Natasha," she said, holding her hand out. The man smiled, showing a few gold fillings as he shook her hand vigorously.

"Mrs. Valentine will be extremely pleased to know you've made it, and in such short time too! She's waiting at the first store you suggested, let's get going."

This time when Galahad's hand snaked around her waist, she didn't object. This man was hired by Marsha – it was now time to start the façade.

They were at the third store so far, and he was slowly losing his mind.

Jesus, how long did it take for a woman to chose one dress for a night out?

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he sipped his coffee at the café next door to the boutique. They had both agreed that it would be a great talking point for them if he revealed he was the plus one at the Gala. But he still followed, watching Lincoln and Marsha's interactions, since he had nothing else to do. He thought if he did so he might learn more about his partner, even if from afar.

He wanted to bring out his phone to text Roxy, but they were on radio silence. No communication, only tracking. His glasses were even offline, only recording and doing nothing else.

Still, that didn't stop him from hacking into the store's cameras on his laptop. He watched the feed as he drank his coffee.

Marsha stepped out of the dressing room in a dark green gown, a slight frown on her face.

Immediately, as though she wasn't staring out the window with a scowl on her face, 'Natasha' turned and smiled at her.

She said something and stepped forward as Marsha looked at herself in the mirror.

Marsha sighed, and shook her head.

'Natasha' grasped Marsha's hands, smiling. He watched her face; bright, but fake, as she seemed to point out different aspects of the gown, trying to sell her on it. He wondered if he would prefer that bright look to the glares and eye rolls he consistently received.

He shook his head at himself again, coming to a quick conclusion. It was the latter; if she was looking at him, he didn't want her being fake.

He blinked, wondering why he was even thinking of such a thing as Marsha blushed and shook her head before moving back into the dressing room.

He watched as Lincoln stared after Marsha, her smile falling the instant the drape drew shut, her usual scowl returning to its place as she continued looking out the shop window.

She was an enigma if anything.

Not just her animosity towards him – which he understood. He put up a good fight – both times they had gone hand to hand.

But it was the tattoo's and more to the point, her reaction to him bringing them up.

That her cover name was Natasha, though the nickname 'Nat' was completely off-limits.

And then there was the way Marsha treated her like a pseudo daughter, but every time Marsha turned the other way, her face fell and pure hatred shone in her eyes. He considered himself lucky; despite their own tense relationship, he wasn't on the receiving end of such a look.

Who was this girl? Hoover's comment before she punched him had him double checking their weapons suitcase before they left, and he saw she hadn't brought any bullets – like he had encountered the last time they were in New York. She only had tranquilizer bullets this time. She was cut off, barely showing anything to him directly, but in moments when she thought she was invisible she showed everything, especially in her eyes.

The unspeakable tattoo's, the unspeakable nickname, the unspeakable everything…

Who was she?

And what the hell was her real name?

Marsha drew the drape to the dressing room, dressed back in her original pantsuit and Lincoln, as though on automatic, smiled and led them out of the shop, their arms linked together.

He turned away as he took one last gulp of his coffee, closing his laptop and quickly putting in in his bag before hailing a cab to follow theirs.

She took a deep breath, staring herself down in the mirror.

"You can do this," she muttered to herself, her hands flat on the counter in the bathroom curling into fists.

She was all made-up, the dress was on. The Gala had already started, but as Marsha had even told them, 'fashionably late is a staple in this kind of kiss-ass business'.

The last time she was dressed up and in the same room with Galahad, they were pointing guns and drawing knives on one another.

Back then he was an unknown complication.

And now… well…he was still a complication but he was a colleague. They would be in the same room - both dressed up even more than before - and acting as lovers. She had to put on the act to be a stylist and friend while imagining different ways to end Marsha's life and she could certainly do the same with Galahad.

She closed her eyes, her nails biting into her palms.

She thought back to Dylan and his confusion at her less than welcoming attitude towards the colleague who was on the other side of the door…

Half of it was her wounded pride – she had meant it when she drunkenly told Dylan that he was a skilled fighter and had almost beaten her. She was never almost beaten… she was always the one to win; the one to succeed, the one to complete the mission. Being a woman in her field drove that need to come on top. Add her wounded pride to the blasé and annoying confidence he had (which equally matched with her own), plus the fact that he always had an answer to her sarcastic and offhanded remarks… what wasn't there for her to dislike?

However, the other half just drew a blank. It was as though her subconscious was warning herself about him.

Stay the course, stay inaccessible: stay away.

This one is going to break you…

She shook her head, her hands gliding down the soft fabric of her purple floor length dress, sleeveless with a sheer fabric covering one shoulder. She'd put her hair up in a rough bun, not too messy, with one or two strands hanging down to frame her face, more-so for her to fidget with than anything else. She couldn't even remember the last time she wore so much makeup. She had to reapply her eye shadow and eyeliner multiple times, perfecting the smoky eye effect.

She hated these types of missions. The chumming up; getting an 'in' with the target, pretending as though she belonged among those that had houses ten times bigger than her studio apartment.

Give her a few (tranq) guns and body armor and she was ready to take down anybody. But dressing up?

No thank you.

But this mission, this target… this would end it all. Her promise to her sister would be fulfilled.

And in a sick twisted round of events… she couldn't do it alone.

She stared at herself in the mirror again.

They were colleagues, and it was needed for the mission.

For Nat.

She kept recycling those two sentences in her head as she sighed and swung the door open, walking into the hotel room they shared – Marsha had only booked one room for her and her plus one. Later that night was when they would have to face the fact there was only one bed. For now, they had the mission to focus on.

She looked around and found him staring out the window, his hands in his tuxedo pockets as he admired the view of New York.

She cleared her throat nervously, and he turned.

Her eyes grew wide but she blinked, looking away at the sight of him.

She cleared her throat again as she walked towards him, a dazed look equal to what she had felt moments before on his own face.

She ignored it as she reached him, slapping the skin patch she had Adams create in his hand, turning her back towards him. She needed it to cover her tattoos.

"It's simple to apply," she said, closing her eyes, hoping and even willing for him to not make some remark.

He cleared his throat and she tensed up, ready for some lame Christmas joke, but instead she slightly jumped when his fingertips brushed against her skin.

"It won't work unless ya stand still," he muttered.

She stood still, not flinching as he touched her bare skin again as he applied the patch over her tattoos, his fingers pushing in to make sure it stuck.

He cleared his throat and she nodded, walking to the mirror and turning around, looking over her shoulder. Her tattoos were covered, the skin patch barely visible, a match to her skin tone.

She cleared her throat, sparing him a glance as she muttered "Thanks."

"Sorry, luv, didn't quite catch that," he said.

She rolled her eyes.

"C'mon, we've got a gala to attend."

He rushed forward to open the door for them, and rushed forward again to press the button for the elevator, which they rode in complete silence.

She kept her gaze up, watching the numbers change as the elevator descended through each floor, thankfully un-interrupted.

"Mark my words, Galahad, you try anything other than your so called harmless arm around my waist, and we'll have trouble," she said just as the elevator doors opened to the lobby.

He snuck a 'harmless' arm around her waist as they walked towards the main ballroom to the hotel, giving the paper invitation to the guard at the door before they walked forward into the thick of it.

They stood in the doorway, looking out at the large crowd. She felt his hand tighten around her waist and his breath on her neck as he whispered in her ear:

"You ready?"

To her surprise, she turned to look up at him, unperturbed by how close their faces were, their eyes inches apart… and she nodded.

"I think so, yeah."

He tilted his head, but nodded, his hand around her waist tightening for a second in reassurance before relaxing – but he kept it there.

New York, I Love You by LCD Soundsystem