Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Cold

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or any of its characters, so there.

Summary: Bronwyn and Jones give Smith his just deserts in a very embarrassing and very public way.

Author's Note: WARNING: This chapter has explicit and graphic descriptions of a sexual nature and innuendo, with coarse language. If you are easily offended, back off now, but if you are not and want to see Smith finally get what's coming to him, enjoy!

She clung to his hand when they entered the restaurant and Jones squeezed it reassuringly. "Don't worry, Bronwyn. Everything has been arranged. Smith won't hurt you, I promise."

"I know," she whispered in response, "but just seeing him again..." and she trembled at the thought.

However, being close to him again so soon after the incident in the mall scares me more than I have even told you, Jones, Bronwyn thought to herself. Let him see that I'm not going to let him scare me in here. I have done enough running and hiding in fear because of that bastard. It ends tonight.

What if he's watching me right now? The thought of Smith's eyes on her made her square her shoulders and raise her chin proudly. Let him look, I don't care. Wait. I will give him something to really feast his eyes on, she thought coldly. She tugged at Jones' hand to get his attention and when he bent down at her gesture, she kissed him passionately. He returned her kiss eagerly. Their obvious display of affection had caught the attention of some of the other patrons in the restaurant and they smiled knowingly at the passion the tall, well-dressed man and the petite and very pregnant woman were showing one another.

"Save some of that for later," Jones whispered in her ear.

"That's just the appetizer," Bronwyn murmured in response against Jones' cheek, before they pulled away from each other.

"Are you going to be okay with what you have to do, Bronwyn?"

"I'll be all right, Jones, don't worry. Smith won't know what hit him when I'm done with him," she promised grimly.

He leaned down and kissed her again, then said in a low voice in her ear, "just pretend it's me sitting in front of you when you tell him about our plans for when we get home." He gave her a brief, but lewd, smile and she giggled, blushing deeply.

Jones spotted Smith sitting in a corner booth, conveniently located in the darkest corner of the restaurant. "There he is," Jones said, guiding Bronwyn with a hand in the small of her back. They seated themselves, with Jones intentionally putting himself between Smith and Bronwyn, and he put his hand over Bronwyn's, where it lay on the table in full view of Smith.

It had been no coincidence that Smith had taken this particular table. It offered a full view of anyone entering, while its occupants remained discreetly out of view. However, most importantly, it was intended as an intimate table for two, so that no matter where she chose to sit, Bronwyn would still be on one side of Smith.

He had watched her from the moment she and Jones entered. Smith was relieved to see that her face had more color and she was definitely in better condition than he saw during that one glimpse of her that he had been able to steal during her stay at the hospital, as well as the time when she was sitting in the cafeteria after her appointment. However, he hadn't seen a lot of her that time to accurately assess her condition because he had been unable to see her face, except from a distance.

"You're looking better, Bronwyn," Smith said. He watched her carefully for any reaction and while she tried to respond as if she would have any other man given her the compliment, her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around Jones'.

A slight sneer curled Smith's lip as his gaze traveled to Jones in a long, leisurely appraisal. When he and Bronwyn had entered the restaurant, Smith almost did not recognize his former associate for Jones had discarded the standard agent-issued black suit and was now dressed in a very expensive, perfectly tailored, double-breasted Italian suit in navy blue. The white shirt had been replaced by a blue silk one of a lighter shade than the rest of the ensemble. The outfit was complete with a tie that Smith would wager was no less than $200, at least. What Jones was now wearing put Smith's own attire far in the shade and Smith knew it. He turned his attention back to Bronwyn.

"No thanks to you, since you were the one who put me in the hospital in the first place," she answered glibly, her gaze haughtily meeting Smith's, displaying none of the inner turmoil she was feeling. Maybe I can do this, she thought. If I play my cards right and with a bit of luck, maybe Jones and I can pull this off. However, in order for that to happen, I'm going to need all the courage I can possibly summon, and then some. Just you wait, Smith, she thought, narrowing her eyes as she glared at him, you'll get yours soon enough.

She took a deep breath. "Well, are we just going to sit here and stare at one another? I don't know about either of you, but I, for one, am hungry, and the Coquille St. Jacques they serve here is absolutely divine."

A waitress approached their table at Jones' summons and Bronwyn placed her order. Neither Jones nor Smith ordered any food, and Bronwyn frowned slightly when she heard Jones request a bottle of the restaurant's finest scotch, while Smith asked for a refill of his snifter of Napoleon brandy.

Smith had never drunk alcohol of any kind, but since Bronwyn's stay at the hospital, he had taken to drinking brandy. He found that he rather enjoyed feeling the tang of the strong liquor as it entered his system, and the numbing, warming sensation it provided was pleasant, but only when he had imbibed enough of it.

It's your fault I'm drinking at all, Smith thought, glaring at Bronwyn and Jones who were conversing in low tones across the table from him. He could still remember the taste of his first drink and the reason for it...

It was the night that Bronwyn had been taken to the hospital after her collapse at the mall...

"Bronwyn!" Jones yelled, and caught her before she hit the ground. "Are you happy now, Smith? Are you?!". He turned his attention back to Bronwyn and called 911. The ambulance arrived a short time later. Smith moved forward as if he was to be the one who accompanied Bronwyn to the hospital, but Jones flattened his large hand against Smith's chest, preventing him from getting in the ambulance with Bronwyn.

"I'm going with her," Smith said, assuming the habitual tone of command he had used when dealing with Brown and Jones when the three men had been agents; where Smith had been accustomed to having his orders being obeyed instantly, and without question.

"Get out of my way, Jones, and that's an order." Smith commanded.

Jones hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before he rallied. "I don't take orders from you anymore, and I never will again. Your days of being in command are over. As for getting inside this vehicle, I will be the one who decides that, not you. You are not going anywhere, Smith. Stay the hell away from her or I will kill you." Jones snarled in Smith's face.

When Smith did not move away, Jones suddenly drew back his arm and punched his former boss in the jaw. The unexpectedness of the blow and the force behind it knocked Smith clear off his feet and three yards away from the ambulance's doors. Jones got inside, the doors slammed shut and the vehicle drove away, sirens and lights blaring. Smith got to his feet and straightened his clothes, ignoring the curious looks from bystanders, and headed to his car so he could follow behind.

Once inside his car, he fingered his jaw cautiously. Jones may be clumsy and stupid, Smith thought, but when he is angry enough, he can certainly pack a punch. It was the first time Smith had been at the receiving end of Jones' physical abilities and he now understood why so many Resistance fighters did not get up again after being hit only once by the largest of the three agents.

While Brown and I relied on our faster reflexes and primarily used martial arts to subdue and overcome any human opponents, Jones always preferred to use sheer, brute strength; and after that blow he dealt me, I can finally appreciate why. If I had been a lesser man, that hit probably would have killed me. And that is yet another score I have to settle with you, Jones, Smith vowed.

Upon Bronwyn's arrival, the emergency room team quickly and competently assessed Bronwyn's condition and sent her up to the Obstetrics floor for further evaluation. Jones paced ceaselessly in the waiting room, waiting for any information on her present state, however, it was quite a while until she regained consciousness.

Unfortunately, for Smith, Jones had given Dr. Yade strict instructions regarding who should be allowed to visit and who should not.

Smith tried again and again to see Bronwyn or get any word about her condition, but Jones had foreseen and forestalled every possible route he might take to obtain his objective. Jones remained in Bronwyn's room, always at her side, always present, and always watchful.

It was one of the very few times in which Smith admitted defeat, but he had to confess, grudgingly, that his rival had covered every angle. Also, with Bronwyn's and his child's health at such high risk and with Jones himself standing guard over both of them, perhaps the best course of action for him to take was to do nothing.

Eventually, she would be released from the hospital and his chances of seeing her, to see for himself the condition that he had put her in, would be greatly increased if he conceded defeat and backed off. No, he thought to himself, I will not let them win. Jones cannot watch her every minute; the moment he slips up, I will seize the opportunity to see her. All I need to do now is watch and wait.

Once outside the hospital where he had been refused admittance yet again to Bronwyn's room, Smith walked aimlessly with no particular destination in mind until he came upon a pub and for no other reason than the fact that it was someplace to go, he entered the dark and smoke clouded establishment.

The place was busy; however, Smith managed to find a vacant seat at the bar. The two men on his right were having a discussion, and a phrase one of them uttered caught his ear and interest and he surreptitiously focused on listening to the remainder of their conversation.

"....like I said, Alex, once you hold your kid for the first time and look into their eyes, I don't care who you are, man, it just does something to your heart and bam! You see everything around you in a whole, new light. I mean, you're a father, now. You're responsible for creating a new life. You're responsible for your child for the rest of its life."

"Yeah, but in my case, my wife is not doing so well, and I'm really worried about her."

"Did she have a boy or girl?"

"A girl. A beautiful little girl. Six pounds, twelve ounces. However, with Jess, my wife...there were complications. It doesn't look good." The man laughed sourly. "I mean, who in this day and age would think that a woman can still die during childbirth? This is not some fucking third world country. Women don't just die in childbirth anymore. In my grandmother's time, yeah, sure, but this is the 21st century. How can this happen?" Alex buried his head in his hands and was unable to continue, at which point Smith stopped listening and focused on his own problems.

Smith pondered what he had heard and the reality of the past few hours crowded on his memory. I caused this, he thought bleakly. I am responsible for the danger that is now facing Bronwyn and the baby. He frowned, his brow furrowing as he felt something he had never experienced before: guilt.

During all the years he was an agent, Smith had never felt the urge to taste alcohol, but now, there was an inner desire, a longing, within him for it. He knew that humans readily turned to alcohol to drown their problems and forget their troubles. Maybe it's time I do the same, he thought.

"What'll it be?" the waiter asked.

Smith shrugged. "What do you recommend?"

"It depends what you want it for. If you just want to get drunk, drink beer. But if you want to get shit-faced and can afford it, brandy hits hard and it hits fast."

He nodded his acceptance. When the drink arrived, Smith sniffed it cautiously before taking a sip. The amber liquor burned as it went down and Smith found the sensation intriguing, yet pleasant.

"Want a refill?" the waiter asked.

"Leave the bottle."

"No problem, buddy. It's your liver."

The more he drank, it seemed that life, his situation, everything, became simplified. It was all her fault. Why did she have to take that particular route home that night? Why did she talk to me like that? What was it about her than caused me to take notice of her? Why did she make me rape her? That's how this whole mess started.

But what if it ends tonight? What if she dies and takes my child with her? Damn her to hell! Smith cursed, slamming his fist on the top of the bar. Why can't I have one without the other? If Bronwyn loses the baby, I can't even see her to tell her how sorry I am, for Jones will still be there, at her side, where I should be.

In short order, the bottle was empty and not wishing to remain any longer, Smith paid what he owed and left the bar.

The next few days, he never stopped trying to see Bronwyn. However, after careful observation of the standard operating procedure of the Obstetrics wing, Smith was able to discover and subsequently exploit a weakness that might enable him to at least get a glance of Bronwyn.

It is the policy of most hospitals that cell phones are not to be used indoors. With careful deliberation and planning, Smith sabotaged the incoming phone line that was connected to Bronwyn's room. In order for Jones to report to Mickey on her condition, Jones had had no choice but to use a hallway payphone.

It was a window of only a few minutes, but it was enough. Smith pushed open the door of her room, entered, and walked over to her bed. He saw for himself her weakened state. She appeared to be sleeping as her eyes were closed and she lay quiet and still. Her face was very pale; the pallor only emphasized the dark circles under her eyes.

He turned when he felt Jones' hand clamp down hard on his shoulder. "Get out, Smith," he ordered in a low voice, so as not to disturb her.

Smith turned for a last look at Bronwyn before he left. He walked slowly down the corridor absorbed by his thoughts and out of the hospital...

Smith shook himself out of his reverie and turned his attention back to the two people in front of him. Bronwyn looked at Jones when she saw that he had already emptied his drink. She knew that Jones was not a man to turn easily to alcohol and was apprehensive when she observed that the two men matched each other, drink for drink.

Terrific, she thought peeved; this is going to turn into some macho pissing contest to see who can drink whom under the table first. Men! What is it about that damn 'Y' chromosome of theirs that makes them act like morons, sometimes?

With the completion of each drink, Smith became more and more bitter and resentful at the open display of affection between Bronwyn and Jones.

Bronwyn excused herself to powder her nose and Jones rose from the table, giving her his hand so she could get up from the low seat of the booth. When she was on her feet, she stood on her tiptoes as Jones bent down to give her a long, lingering kiss her before she left.

Jealousy flowed through Smith's entire body and he clenched his hand so tightly until he heard his knuckles crack. He examined the Matrix codes of Jones and Bronwyn and found that the feeling between them was genuine; they were both attracted to each other much more than he realized.

Both men watched her leave and when she was out of sight, Smith and Jones looked at each other and for a brief moment, each man envied the other.

For Smith, he was jealous that Bronwyn welcomed Jones' slightest touch; happily giving and receiving caresses, while he, Smith, was not allowed to so much as touch her finger. For Jones, he was jealous that Bronwyn was carrying Smith's child and not his own.

Shortly afterward, Bronwyn returned to the table and Smith watched as she placed her hand under the table on Jones' thigh and how Jones covered it with his own, stroking her fingers as he did so.

"If you two could stop fondling each other for a moment, there's some business we have to discuss," Smith said sharply.

He looked at Jones. "You might like to know that I had a meeting with your father the other day."

Bronwyn shrugged. "So? What's the big deal about that?"

"The 'big deal' Bronwyn, is that Jones lied to you. That man you met is not Jones' father, but our former superior at the agency where we used to work." Deny that if you can, Jones, Smith thought smugly, watching with pleasure as Bronwyn turned to look at Jones.

"Is this true?" she asked him softly.

"Yes."

"And why exactly did you lie to her face and keep her from knowing the truth, Jones?" Smith persisted, a subtle look of glee on his face and in his eyes

"Shut up, Smith," Jones snapped, giving Smith a fierce look.

"Your lover has kept quite a few things from you, Bronwyn, didn't you know that?"

"Like what?" she asked.

"Do you know how many people he's killed? Do you know how many of them begged and pleaded with him to spare their lives but he killed them anyway?"

Bronwyn swallowed and shook her head. It was all in the line of duty, she told herself, trying to squash the seed of doubt that Smith attempted to plant in her mind against Jones. He's just trying to turn me against him, but it won't work.

Seeing he had discovered an unexpected advantage, Smith pressed on.

"You always preferred a 'hands on' approach, didn't you, Jones? Not only did you shoot them, you squeezed the life out of more than a few with your bare hands. And you've broken more necks than Bronwyn would ever like to hear about, I'm sure."

At her blank look, Smith raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief and addressed Bronwyn. "You mean to tell me that he's never told you about any of his 'war stories' from working for the Agency?. The next time he touches you, Bronwyn, imagine how many lives he has taken with those very same big, large hands of his. I imagine that some tales you could tell Bronwyn would make for some very interesting bedtime stories, isn't that right, Jones? You know the ones that I'm referring to."

Jones barely nodded his head in response. With a terrible, sinking feeling, he knew what Smith was going to say to Bronwyn. I should have told her about that, he told himself. I should have told her about the things I've done. Now, Smith is going to tell her and when he does, she will hate and despise me, I'm sure of it. But what could I do? How could I tell her? Now I am going to lose her and it will be all my own fault.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Bronwyn spoke before he could do so.

"What are you talking about, Smith?" she demanded angrily.

"Jones never told you what he likes to do to women, did he?" Smith lowered his voice to a suggestive undertone and leaned forward towards her, his eyes sparkling maliciously.

"No, he never told me and furthermore, I don't want to know."

Smith scoffed. "How can you say that, Bronwyn?" he asked, incredulously. "How can you not want to know what he's done to other women in the past; what he is capable of doing perhaps even to you?"

"You're right, Smith. You just said it yourself: in the past. Whatever he has done was in the past. He may have done some reprehensible things, but so have I. Frankly, I don't want to know about what he's done in his past, just as he doesn't want to know what I've done in mine."

To add a final insult, she reached over and patted Smith's hand. "Try again, Smith. Your plan didn't work. You lost." She removed her hand from his and wiped it off out of sight on the skirt of her dress.

She doesn't care about my past, Jones thought to himself. It doesn't matter now what Smith tells her, for she will not believe him. Jones drew a cautious, inward sigh of relief. "I don't think we have anything further to discuss, Smith," he sneered, as he left the table to pay their bill at the cashier's kiosk.

As she leaned over to retrieve her purse, Bronwyn saw Smith's eyes were focused and intent on the amount of cleavage her dress revealed.

"Magnificent, aren't they?" she said, her eyes looking deep into his own, and she almost smiled when he murmured his agreement.

"I've noticed a definite increase in their size over the last little while," she said blithely, as if discussing the size of her breasts was an everyday occurrence.

"I can see that." he said admiringly, watching her hand as she trailed her fingers down her neck and her fingers touched the gold talisman that hung at the end of a long golden chain.

"What's that figurine on your necklace?" Smith asked.

"It's an Egyptian goddess called "Taweret." She is portrayed as a pregnant hippopotamus that ancient Egyptian women used to worship to ensure the safe delivery of their babies." Jones had known about her mania for anything regarding Ancient Egypt, he had had it specially made for her and given it to her for her birthday, and she had never taken it off since.

"So it's sort of a good-luck symbol?"

Bronwyn nodded and she could hear a subtle change in his voice; it seemed to be deeper, huskier than usual. She saw his eyes flick downward to where her fingers still toyed with the amulet, and then travel lower as he took advantage of the fact he was so much taller than she was and from his position beside her, Smith was able to get a most tantalizing view of her bosom.

Bronwyn arched her neck to the side to look for Jones on the other end of the room and saw that he was still waiting in line to pay the bill. She had a lot of time to do what she had to, and now that Smith's interest was definitely aroused, it would make her task that much easier. She turned her attention back to him.

She slid over to him until the entire area from her hip to her ankle was in contact with his.

"Do you know what Jones and I are going to do once we get back home?"

"No. Why don't you tell me, Bronwyn?" Smith murmured.

She lowered her voice to barely above a whisper and he had to lean closer to hear her. "When we get home, we are going to fuck each other's brains out." Her eyes sparkled with an unusual luster when she felt a shiver race through his body, transmitting itself to hers through their area of contact.

He chuckled deep in his throat. "How is that even possible, Bronwyn? You are seven months, two weeks, four days, twenty three hours and fifteen minutes pregnant," Smith replied, with a trace of disbelief and Bronwyn heard a note of underlying scorn in his voice.

"There are more ways of satisfying each other sexually than just fucking, you know," Bronwyn had pondered beforehand how she was going to word her statement, but realized that for maximum effect, it would be more titillating for Smith to hear if she used the crudest words and expressions she could think of. With her lips almost touching his ear, she continued.

"I'm going to take all of Jones' clothes very, very slowly and touch and kiss him all over his body until his dick is hard enough to cut diamonds. Then I'm going to put his cock in my mouth and suck it until he comes deep in my throat, and then I'm going to swallow every drop." She felt Smith twitch sharply when she finished, and Bronwyn put her hand under the table and onto his knee, sliding it slowly upward.

Smith could feel his groin stir and become instantly hard as an explicit, visual image of what constituted oral sex being performed on a man looked like flashed through his mind and he imagined Bronwyn doing that to Jones.

She had him where she wanted him and she knew it. But it's not over yet, Bronwyn thought, not by a long shot. He's taken the bait, and now it's time to reel him in.

"And do you know what he's going to do to me in return?" she asked, and Smith wondered what her voice would sound like throaty with passion, husky in longing and desire and realized that it would probably be very close to the way it was now. Not able to trust his own voice, he shook his head mutely.

"He going to take my clit between his lips and suckle it until I come. And when I do, I can be quite loud, you know. Doesn't the thought of that just get you just so hot and bothered?" her hand had barely touched his groin when he yanked her hand away, but not fast enough. She had her answer, and they both knew it. I haven't forgotten a thing, she told herself in unrestrained triumph. I still know exactly what to say to make a man excited.

"That's what Jones does to me just about each and every night. He is just so damn good at it; you have no idea. But my neighbors do, I'm sure." Bronwyn shrugged her shoulders casually, without a trace of embarrassment. "Like I said, I am loud when I come; Jones? Not so much. He's more reserved than I am."

As if on cue, the lights of the restaurant came on, just as Jones reached their table. Smith caught the smug, derisive look on Jones' face, as he looked conspiratorially looked at Bronwyn, who answered the look, pulled away from Smith, and stood at Jones' side.

Elation shone on her face when she spoke to Smith. "There is a classic line from a movie that I think sums up this whole evening: 'Revenge is a dish best served cold,' or in your case should that be 'hot' instead? For, if I am not mistaken, you are so horny and hard right now, once you get out of here, you'll be looking for the nearest convenience store to get some lotion and tissue." At his blank look of incomprehension, she looked in disbelief at Jones, and then made a motion with her hand that symbolized the act of male masturbation.

An ugly, horrible look came over Smith's face as he understood what she was getting at and realized that he had been set up.

"You little whore," he hissed at Bronwyn, his teeth bared. "You did this to me on purpose; the both of you."

"You're damn right we did. You deserved that and a lot more for what you did to me, and you know it. But Jones and I didn't do it alone, a few others helped as well," she taunted smugly, "the manager of this place owed Mickey a favor and he agreed to close the place early tonight so we could put our little plan into action." She glanced for a moment at where Smith's groin was hidden by the table, and then she continued.

"I've made damn sure that you won't be going anywhere just yet, Smith. And why is that, you may ask? Because, you are, as the kids say, 'putting up a tent' in your pants. It is quite obvious—I've made damn sure of that--and as you may or may not have noticed: a) the restaurant is closing, and you will have to leave and b) the exit is all the way at the other end of the room; so anyone who isn't blind can see your, um, predicament."

Smith seethed with helpless rage. He didn't have to glance down at his lap to know that every word she said was true. He cursed his male body that would blatantly advertise his state of arousal once he left the table. His face flushed with the heat of the lust Bronwyn had awakened in him with her graphic and crude explanation of oral sex between herself and Jones, as well as shame. For the first time in his existence, he felt dirty and mortified.

Bronwyn laughed in his face. "Now you know what it's like to feel degraded, don't you Smith? Good. I'm glad! Let's go, Jones, my work here is done." Bronwyn felt her heart pounding and the noise that always followed it start to rise in her ears. Not now, she commanded herself, and took deep, steady breaths to calm herself. If I pass out now, then Smith will see that as a sign of weakness and use it to his advantage.

As for Jones, he will just be worrying himself over nothing. A soft, tender smile came to her lips as she remembered waking up in the hospital and seeing him by her bedside; later learning from the nursing staff that he had hardly left her side during her entire stay.

"Let's go home," she murmured softly to Jones. He took her hand and they walked out of the restaurant.