Malik has long made a habit of inviting Vaclav along to her gala shopping, whether it was in person or just via call, specifically to make fun of all the ridiculous fashion she found. She usually attended those events in a suit, sleek and tailored for her, the picture of grace and power. But this time, she thought something that showed off her new leg might be more fitting.

Besides, she had an escort this time. And wouldn't it be nice to wipe that smug look off the assassin's face?

She hasn't realized she's vocalized that thought until Vaclav laughs, steering her away from the suitjackets and toward the dresses on a moment's notice.

"Well, he let you walk into a public store without him, so that's something," the mechanic says, starting to pull at the fabric of dresses as they pass. Even he usually wouldn't want to come, preferring to laugh from afar, but they've all been cooped up for a while and Icarus wouldn't leave Malik alone, so of course Vaclav had to offer to go. What was the point of 'wiping that smug look off his face' if it happened in the store and not outside the event itself?

It's still a week to the event itself, and Malik is walking on her leg like she's had it for years, not days. She was a quick study in all things that let her do things faster, and this was no exception. Fluid and agile, the picture of ease. She was going to turn heads and knock them all dead, more so than usual.

It's as Vaclav is thinking this that Malik stops in the middle of the aisle. Her face breaks into a grin and she drags Vaclav towards a red dress with a slit in the side, and she's immediately going to try it on. Her only complaint with it in the end is that it doesn't show off her leg enough, and could they please tailor it with a higher cut. The woman running the store, an aug herself, only nods appreciatively at Malik's leg and says she'll have it done within the next two days. Vaclav thinks the dress is perhaps a little simple, the shoulders bare and with little flair to it, but the way Malik is eyeing that piece of clothing, he has a feeling there's more to it that even he doesn't know of.

She picks up the dress a few days later, and Vaclav has never known her to be so excited over something that wasn't adrenaline-involved. Or maybe it is – he's only been to one gala and it was the most terrifying experience in his life (aside from Otar's gun being held to his head). Perhaps she's already thinking ahead to the event itself.

She had been doing exactly that. There was one piece of clothing she'd been holding onto for months, stowed secretly in her plane, and while she'd had no idea what to do with it before except that she needed it, the pieces all fell together perfectly for it now.

Malik had dropped Vaclav back off at his shop, making sure all was as it should be, before taking off toward Paris for the night's event. Adam was still in his trenchcoat, which Malik frowned disapprovingly at, but he said nothing in response. To be fair, though, she was wearing her flightsuit – never knew when something would go wrong mid-trip, and while she could fly in heels, it would ruin the surprise, now wouldn't it?

"I'm sure you know all the big names, but now you'll get to see their breathing faces put to names. There's always something exciting happening at a gala, especially the winter one. That's when all the good deals get struck, and when all the bloodshed happens."

"Bloodshed?" Adam asks, sounding curious.

"Sure. They can't ban weapons, since augs essentially are weapons, and that 'wouldn't be fair to naturals', so fights tend to escalate. It's always fun to watch the hierarchies shift over one drink."

"Wouldn't have taken you for the political intrigue type," he mentions, leaning against the wall behind her chair.

"Me either," she laughs, shrugging. "It's almost as fun as skydiving, especially when you're not involved. I can't really afford to ignore it though, not with my whole supply network relying on existing at the fringes of all of the other scuffles."

He makes a thoughtful noise, and she just starts seeing the skyline of Paris in the distance. She knew exactly where to go – while they hadn't used this exact place before, all the high-class but not necessarily lawful venues were in a relatively small area. She notes the one marked on her invitation, and finds a nearby dark roof to land on, already populated with a few personal vehicles. Most of the higher ups flew to these things, while others had drivers and took the streets.

Malik touches down, and Adam is already moving to scan their surroundings, double-checking that all the parked planes were in fact devoid of any activity. While he does that, she shuts down her plane, and stands, reaching for the bag with her clothes in it. She certainly wasn't going to fly in them, and she didn't want them wrinkled.

"I'll be out in a sec," she calls, shutting the bay door and unzipping her flightsuit. She changes quick, glancing down and smiling wide as the white of her leg stands out starkly against her red dress, and the glow in her aug complements it. She had a pair of gold earrings and gold heels – with the added benefit of them sparking when dragged against the floor – and one might think those were to match with Adam's gold and black augs. Except she had one more thing to put on. The one she'd been holding close to her chest. She pulls out a gorgeous capelet, made of a fine gold mesh and inlaid with golden feathers. Pulling it over her head, and it settles over her shoulders like it was made for her.

Malik steps out of the VTOL, the movement catching Adam's eye, and he's already turning towards her when he freezes. Shoulders rigid, and she thinks something's wrong for a moment, before she realizes that she's had the exact reaction out of him she wants. She makes sure to record the moment for posterity. Icarus, the great assassin, struck speechless not out of will but by reaction.

She grins, wide and sharp. "I told you it was fancy, didn't I?"

That seems to snap him out of it, and he straightens up without saying anything. In retaliation – that's what it is, it has to be – he pulls off his trench coat. Where he usually wore an armored chestplate, he was now wearing a sharp vest, a crisp shirt underneath with the arms rolled up to the elbows, showing off the sleek curves of his augs. Slacks and those are dress shoes, and it's Malik's turn to be speechless.

"Is this impressive enough for your standards, Phoenix?" he asks, and she laughs sudden, amused and warm.

"It'll do." She reaches to take his coat and put it in the plane, and although he seems unhappy to give it up, he makes no complaints. She locks up her VTOL and gestures at the small walkway between this building and the one of the event. "Shall we?"

"After you."

Malik manages to suppress the wild grin on her face by the time they get to the floor they are headed for. The elevator doors open into an extravagant hall, with lights strung up and standing tables scattered throughout. The decorations are sparse, but where they can be seen are winter berries and dark, elegant garlands. The room is crowded, Malik had made sure they would arrive just slightly late, and this being the winter Gala and the most extravagant of all, a young man by the elevator announces their entrance. A young kid trying to work his way up the ranks of an organization, perhaps.

"The Phoenix, accompanied by Icarus," the kid says, his voice carrying over the speakers.

The room falls instantly silent.

Heads whirl to confirm that this youngblood had gotten that right, because everything that had been known before this was that the Phoenix was dead and Icarus would drop dead before ever coming to an event like this.

Malik struggles again to keep herself from grinning sharp and wide and triumphant. Let them all revel in the fact that their information sources were wrong, and that she had foiled the attempts of all who tried to kill her. Let them see that she was unkillable, and that she would return better, brighter, as that new leg attested.

The music has slowed to a stop at the silence, and there's a tension in the room strung tight enough to slice through a man's throat.

"Miss me?" she asks, and she sees a few faces look relieved – her contacts across Europe, to be sure – at the knowledge that they hadn't been left high and dry, to fend for themselves and make new contracts.

One such contact of hers had been talking to another man as they'd walked in, and he now looks angry at the man who he'd been speaking to. She recognizes the contact, the angry one, as her inlet to the Parisian slums in the catacombs. "You told me she was dead," he growls, just loud enough for her to hear.

Adam stiffens just behind her, she can feel him tensing just over her shoulder, and she wonders what he's seen that she hasn't picked up on yet.

"You-" the man who was speaking to her contact whirls to face her fully now. "You're supposed to be dead!" he punctuates this with a sudden movement, whipping out a gun and pointing it at her.

Time seems to slow – thank you, neural augs – and she wonders why she doesn't feel concerned. Perhaps a small pistol couldn't scare her any longer after she'd survived a shotgun at point-blank range.

As the man is reaching to pull the trigger, Icarus' arm snaps up, and with his sleeves rolled up she can see in perfect detail as his arm opens up. She's so fixated on that, curious, that she almost misses the nanoblade that launches out of it and straight into the man's throat, pinning him against a pillar behind him. His gun goes off into the floor as he's staggered, choking blood and dying in short order.

Malik doesn't realize that she hasn't taken a breath until her lungs ache, and she does her best to remain composed, half-turning her head to look at him. Impressed. His reaction was lightning-fast, bullseye-accurate, and unbelievable. There's a strange twist in her chest in the aftermath, and she'll just have to think about that later.

It was time to capitalize on this now. "I guess that guy didn't miss me," she shrugs, winking at her Parisian contact who, thankfully, looks pleased at the turn of events. "It'll take a lot more than some roughshod second-rate thugs to kill me." She strides in, the gold feathers on her capelet trailing after her, almost floating behind her, and Adam follows close behind, his arm closed up and whole again.

She can't tell if the awed reactions are in response to her return or Icarus' presence and seeming alliance with her, but she'll take either at the moment. Both are very, very good and quite useful.

She opens a call with Adam and subvocalizes, the smallest hint of a smile on the corners of her lips as they walk into the crowd. "I'll give it to you, that was good," she glances at him as she says so, and she sees his eyebrows peek over his shades in surprise. Perhaps he wasn't expecting the praise or wasn't used to it. "I have to go have a word with all of my contacts and make sure they haven't all defected on me like Paris was about to," she explains. "You're free to wander, if you like. This is a pretty one-of-a-kind event, and I'm sure they all want to talk to you."

Adam's disapproving rumble is almost loud enough for Malik to hear it outside of their channel, and he seems to step even closer to her back after the words. "That would make coming as your bodyguard useless," he argues.

She shrugs. "I refuse to accept any blame if you get bored to death."

Malik's first stop is with her Parisian contact, Alexandre. He's the closest to the entrance of those she knows, and perhaps he knows who it was that tried to shoot her. She glides to him, unaffected by the bloodshed, casting only a passing glance to the body slumped against the wall, the nanoblade sticking perfectly out of the center of his throat.

"Alexandre," she greets him with a genuine smile, reaching a hand forward.

He takes it, shaking it once firmly and smiling wide. "Madame Phoenix," he answers. "How glad I am to see that what I was told is not true." His French accent is thick on his tongue, and she only speaks in English with him because he told her he wouldn't associate with her if she spoke to him in her struggling French. She'd been getting better, but she'll spring it on him at a later date.

"You can't kill a phoenix," she just answers, her arm clasped in his a moment longer.

"So they say." He glances down at her leg as he lets go of her hand, nodding appreciatively. "I do not recognize that- what is it?"

"Custom, of course," she replies.

"Of course."

Adam is standing close over her shoulder, alert and watching everyone around so that she didn't have to. This is the longest he's been in such proximity to her, but if it means she doesn't have to pay so much attention to a knife coming for her back, then she'll take it.

"How is everything? I hope no one's in real trouble without any deliveries recently," she starts.

"No, no, we Parisians are not stupid, Madame, I always instruct the recipients to keep some kind of stock just in case something were to happen. Who knows when the next augmentation shortage will occur?" He is quick to reassure her, to keep up his competent image even if perhaps what he says is not entirely true.

"Thank goodness. I'll get you a shipment as soon as I can. How is your wife?" A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne flutes, and Malik gracefully takes one as he passes, smoothly enough that he doesn't even have to pause on his route.

"She is doing well, thank you. She has finally taken to the new arm, and is learning how to not break all of our butter holders."

Malik laughs, warm. "Tell her I can now appreciate that feeling, and I hope she can get back to her embroidery soon."

"I will, Madame Phoenix. Welcome back." He lets her go, wandering off as another of her contacts walks up to her, to see her in the flesh.

The rest of the evening passes in much the same way. Alexandre hadn't been able to identify the man who'd tried to kill her – he'd only just started talking to him, and the body didn't have any identifying markers. Frustrating, but unsurprising.

Adam remains close to her the whole time, standing just behind her. Each time she is approached, he moves closer pre-emptively, as if he will need to shield her from a new threat. She doesn't worry about any of her existing contacts – though most of them express surprise and perhaps a little bit of apprehension at Icarus' presence –but there's a few new faces she hasn't talked to before. She instinctively tenses when they walk up, used to attending these alone and needing to be prepared to hold her ground, but each time she does, Adam is there. Close. Over her shoulder and she feels…at ease? Safe?

She must be losing her mind if she feels safe at a gala.

That or she really should've gotten a bodyguard long ago.

It's a productive event. Beyond intimidating the ones who meant her harm and making a statement on her allies, she's able to make a list of all the cities that need her most, and then the ones to tend to after. She'd have to pull off a few large heists to make up for the time she was gone, would have to use up a few more warehouses whose employees were her plants.

She's perched at one of the standing tables, forcing others to come to her if they want to speak with her, befitting of an organization leader – roughshod though her organization might be – and she's thoughtfully staring at the bottom of her champagne flute, almost empty. Planning routes and best calculating how to get the most augs to the crews that needed her the most desperately.

Malik doesn't even notice she's been approached – so lost in thought, and already acclimating to Adam's alert guard –until Adam's arm is carefully moving to the small of her back. That light touch jerks her from her thought, and she notices the large Scandanavian man smiling shark-toothed and wide at her.

"Phoenix," he greets her, and she responds with a welcoming but bemused smile.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure." She answers, offering her hand.

"I generally try to keep it that way. But word that Icarus was here? I had to see for myself. I'm Anders, the king of Northern Europe." He does a half-bow, and though he seems all smiles there's a danger hidden in his eyes, in the way he carries himself so arrogantly.

"You already know who I am," she says, a counterpoint. The Phoenix needs no introduction, and those esteemed enough to get an invitation to this event would recognize her on sight, despite her work to hide who she really was to anyone outside this circle. It worked well this way, sowed some confusion.

Until it cost her her leg, anyway.

"I do." A pause as he straightens up, and he's no longer looking at her, his gaze fixed on Adam instead. "How much does she pay you? I'll triple it."

Ah. Malik is surprised at how suddenly she is furious, and is proud of herself for hiding any evidence of that reaction. Best to let Adam answer this himself, lest anyone think they could get behind her and to him another way. She half-turns to look at him, never letting Anders out of her sight but curious to see his reaction.

"I don't accept jobs while working others." His answer is firm, gruff, and wholly uninterested. Partially because she's paying him a pittance, probably, and 'triple' that still wouldn't reach what he normally charged his clients.

"Not even for more?" Anders looks something between impressed and furious beyond measure. He was clearly accustomed to getting whatever he asked for – whether he built the network he relied on or it was handed to him was a question that needed its own answer.

"No. Find me like my other clients do if you'd like me to hear your request." It's an obvious dismissal, and Malik is awed yet again at the total ambivalence he displays to the rank and hierarchy of these mob bosses. She supposes she might feel that way too if she could kill these men in her sleep. Rank meant nothing if you couldn't be protected from those who wanted you dead, and if the best in the business didn't want to protect someone, they would very likely be dead by the end of the month – since usually, that person had been hired to take a hit on said client.

Adam was different from all the other hitmen, bodyguards, mercenaries she knew of. He wouldn't betray for a larger paycheck – or perhaps he would, but he hadn't done so to her yet – he would remain hyperfocused for hours, and he accepted far less than his time was worth. How had she gotten so lucky?

"Fine. You'll regret this." He walks off, straight to the bar, and Malik raises an eyebrow after him.

"Doubt it," is all Malik hears over their channel, and she suppresses a snort as he says so.

He'd stood close to her throughout that entire exchange, a hand on her back and coiled to spring just in case Anders would take out his anger against her.

He wasn't the last to request Adam's services that night, though the following individuals managed somehow to be polite and humble while asking.

Icarus refused them all – except for one girl. She was small, blonde and dainty, and when she asked him for his help, he shook his head but slipped her a business card. Malik saw the exchange, and glanced quickly towards the ceiling to avoid drawing any attention to the movement. She wonders what was different about this girl that made Adam reconsider his earlier policy.

She wants to know more about him, how he decides these things and what drives him.

She'll find out if it kills her.

The event starts to turn from business to party as more and more of the deal-makers get drunk. The music turns upbeat and melodies take the forefront instead of simply being something in the background to provide noise.

Malik has spoken to everyone that she needed to, and it's usually at this point that she leaves these events – never quite trusting a party full of drunk men – but this time she almost wants to see it through. She's far less worried with Adam at her side, and she's barely had anything to drink. Adam, on the other hand, hasn't had anything, as far as she's seen anyway. Maybe he'd snuck a drink from his flask while she'd been talking to someone earlier. She almost wants to ask but doesn't want to offend him if that's a standard of his.

"They're probably gonna start dancing soon," she says to him, glancing at the middle of the room as the small groups of people chatting start to disperse.

"What?" He heard her, but even that seems too much for the criminal infrastructure that existed in Europe. American organized crime, perhaps, but not European.

"They're starting to hit the point where they've drunk too much to make any more deals, so might as well party." She shrugs. "I usually leave around now, but I want to see these losers dance." Malik stops leaning against the high table and moves toward the bar.

Adam says nothing, quirking an eyebrow at her, and she waves it off. She can see the looks on some of those with lesser poker faces, awed at how easily she's interacting with Icarus. Some of them are reevaluating how much an alliance with her might be worth, if she could afford to hire him as a bodyguard. Little do they know he's doing this for free, and she watched the feared assassin pour whiskey in his cereal instead of milk one morning, too asleep to notice.

"First drink's on me," she offers as they reach the bar, which is carved out of a dark oak and polished to a shine under the hanging lights above. The portion she rests her arms on is still warm from the last person to order a drink, and her finger idly traces a knot in the wood.

"No thanks," he answers, glancing around the two of them like he has been doing once or twice a minute the whole night.

"I trust you to be able to handle yourself after just one drink," she says, turning away from the barman to look at him. "Or are you telling me you're a lightweight?" a teasing smirk on the corner of her lips.

"Drink and work don't mix," he answers, and she'd swear he was looking at her sternly.

"Work's mostly done. Don't make me have to drink yours for you." She orders something strong for herself, and a good whiskey for him. Did he like any other drinks? She'd have to ask.

The barman slides her a glass as one of her Norwegian contacts approaches her, looking nervous. He's glancing over his shoulder, and she tries to find who he's looking for casually, without catching his attention. He's so preoccupied, that shouldn't be too difficult.

"Petr," she greets him with a smile, raising her glass to him.

She brings the glass to her lips, about to take a sip. Adam's hand is suddenly at her waist, a light, tense squeeze like he's trying to get her attention. She pauses, and in the moment's hesitation he fluidly takes the glass from her. He holds it up to the light, almost as if he's going to propose a toast.

And crushes it.

The movement is effortless, and the crack of the glass is much quieter than the shower of shards onto the floor.

Malik has half a mind to be offended, but she catches the direction Adam is staring in and sees Anders. Who had called himself the king of northern Europe. Her gaze snaps to Petr, eyes narrowed and still holding herself with poise, as if her bodyguard didn't have an arm covered in glass and alcohol. The pieces come together much faster than they would have on her own – Adam had seen something in her drink that wasn't just alcohol, and had spared her from finding out just what.

"Tell me you were put up to this, and I might go easy." She sounds at ease, and she's anything but. The hand that she'd had on the bar moves slowly, imperceptibly, towards her leg.

"Mal, I swear- he has my family" he looks earnest enough in his desperation.

It's not good enough.

Malik moves lightning-quick, reactions honed from years of reckless piloting, whipping out her knife from its place in her aug and slamming it down onto Petr's hand, through it and into the bar.

He yelps, his other hand shooting to it as if it could do anything. She's still holding onto the handle of the knife, and as she leans forward he leans back, not even challenging her. Her attack had been precise – it hurt like a bitch but he'd be fine.

Her voice is a low murmur, inaudible to any but the two of them and Adam.

"So instead of coming to me and asking for help, you fell into his demands and betrayed me?" She had no idea what Adam had seen in her drink, but that didn't matter.

"Y-yes-" he knows better than to not answer her after she's asked him a direct question.

"Mm. Well, I wish you the best and hope your family gets out of this safe, considering you failed whatever it was you were supposed to do to me." She pulls the knife out quickly, and he sags against the bar, sliding toward the ground and cradling his hand close to his chest. "You made me get my knife bloody," she complains, reaching over the bar and pulling the first drink rag she feels, wiping her weapon off and sliding it back into her leg. She should kill the barman, honestly – they were supposed to make sure no one got poisoned at these events, or else people would stop coming.

Adam glances at her, and she thinks he looks…impressed? It's enough to distract her from her plans of killing the barman.

"Anders left as soon as you pulled a weapon," he says to her.

She could tell him to chase after the man, but there's no point. "Let him run with his tail between his legs. Maybe I'll expand North next."

Adam's shoulders twitch, and she thinks he's suppressing a laugh. Of course – couldn't have regular criminals seeing that he had a sense of humor.

The assassin reaches for her wrist, and she thinks for a moment that there's more trouble. That his presence has made her an assassination attempt magnet – it very well may have; if someone can kill Icarus' charge, then he wasn't infallible – or that maybe she's royally pissed off someone she shouldn't have. He shakes his head as soon as he sees her tense, and there's the smallest smile at the corner of his lips.

"Icarus?" she asks, confused.

"You said there would be dancing." He's starting to look smug, and Malik wants to punch that look off his face.

"Yes, and?"

"You wanted to send a message. This should do it." He's pulling her to the center of the floor, and she wonders who's really in charge here. Wasn't it supposed to be her?

The hand he'd been pulling her by the wrist with shifts to hold her hand, and he pulls her other hand to his shoulder. They're at the center of the opening in the floor, and she's never danced at one of these, let alone stayed long enough to see anyone do so. The attempt to poison her had thrown her off, and this had caught her off guard so badly that she wasn't able to do anything but follow him.

The music shifts, less upbeat and more for dancing to, a wintery jazzy thing. Malik is still in shock that this is happening, that stoic, unflinching Adam Jensen is pulling her to a dance.

It's too late for her to refuse – they've already garnered the attention of half the event.

"Are you fucking with me?" subvocal, and she's looking at him in disbelief even as he takes a step and she follows.

"Mostly with everyone else here, but I can add your name to the list." There's an actual smirk on his face, self-satisfied and smug, and Malik is almost slack-jawed in awe.

"Who are you and what have you done with my bodyguard," she says, following his lead easily, unable to look anywhere but at him.

"Nothing," he says, and his shades flick off.

Everything stops.

Dimly, Malik is aware she's still following his lead, and that the smirk on his lips has grown wider, but she's too preoccupied with the fact that she's seeing his eyes. They glint golden in the light, lenses shifting as he pulls her across the floor, and they're beautiful augments too.

Subconsciously, she finds herself adding 'eyes' to her list of parts to look for.

"You are fucking with me," she finally manages, her throat dry as they dance, and even though there are others dancing near them, all eyes are on her and the assassin.

"You said you wanted them all to know Icarus was yours," he says, and oh. This is revenge for that.

She's not sure how to feel about this. All she knows is that she has to make it through this dance, and then they can leave, and she can think about it later. For now, her image matters most.

The song crescendos towards its end, and for a moment she thinks he's going to dip her. She cuts that off at the pass, curling her augmented leg around his thigh as the song ends, and she's unable to look away from him, grinning sharp right back at him. He almost seems startled at the movement, but doesn't let it show for longer than an instant. They're bound like this, and she wonders if this is still that cat-and-mouse fucking with each other or…something else.

The thought hits her hard and she drops her leg, pulling away from him and casually adjusting her dress back.

"Shall we?" it's quiet, and the next song is beginning and she doesn't even hear it. "I still need my drink."

"After you, Phoenix." The shades snap back over his eyes, and she'd almost think she imagined the golden augs if it hadn't jarred her so.

She definitely needed that drink.

The flight home was silent, companionable – she refuses to accept it being anything else. Nope. The event was a success and nothing short of it. A resounding success, actually. She had made it clear that she could not be so easily killed, that she had powerful allies, and that those allies were willing to fight for her.

She thinks again to the man with the gun, his body pinned to a pillar for the rest of the evening.

Adam was just doing his job. She hadn't seen him at work before – he probably treated every target and enemy as brutally and efficiently.

"Where are we stopping tonight?" he asks her, interrupting her quiet pondering as she flies out of the city of Paris.

"Safehouse just outside city limits," she answers, still in her gala clothes. She hadn't bothered changing out for such a short flight.

"I got a request I need to take care of, but I'll be back quickly," he tells her, coming to the cockpit and she notices he already has his trenchcoat back on when she glances over her shoulder.

"The blonde girl at the gala?" she asks, curious.

"Yes. Her…escort sent her over to test the waters for him, but she requested I instead take him out." He's staring out the window, and his shades are down anyway, so Malik can't quite get a read on what he's thinking.

"You want me to drop you off anywhere specific?" she asks, offering her help. She could get herself home and survive a night in one piece, and he was still an assassin. Couldn't let the underground think he'd gone soft now that he was guarding, and grow complacent in the thought that they were safe from him. It was, perhaps, the best time for him to strike.

"No. Better you're not seen too close." He moves back to the back of the plane, and she's surprised. He's still putting her safety first, even if it makes his job harder. Should she really be so surprised? Maybe he was just always so thorough, so careful about keeping his allies hidden and protected.

"I'll leave a drink out for you," she says as she lands in a copse of trees near a small isolated house, just outside the city. It sat upon a hill just high enough that she could see the Eiffel Tower with its white coil curling up and supporting it from her front yard.

"Don't wait up," he says, hopping out of the back door and cloaking.

"Only if you promise to lock the door behind you when you come home." She's grabbing her flightsuit, folding it over her arm, and she hasn't even noticed that he paused as she said that.

"Tell me you're not leaving your doors unlocked when someone isn't home."

She laughs, and the dance –and all its repercussions - feels far away already. "Guess you'll have to find out, won't you?"