Chapter 4

The silence in the elevator was palpable. John still held her hand, and it was comfortable. Large, calloused, sweaty. He was nervous. She smiled a little to herself and coyly shot a glance at him from the corner of her eye. Her heart thumped in her chest, loudly. Could he hear? The elevator opened on the tenth floor, and she tugged on his hand, leading him towards her room. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, her bravery shackled. What had she been thinking? One beer and a bourbon and she had invited a man up to her room.

She paused, her hand in her pocket. Grip on her room key. Matilda turned her head up to gaze at him. She found John looking down at her, with those brown eyes, so clear. Full of doubt, sadness…excitement?

"Have you eaten yet?" She found herself asking.

A small smile played on his lips. He shook his head, his hair falling in his eyes.

"Room service?" Matilda suggested, her voice sounding breathy, quiet in the moment.

John nodded. "Sounds lovely." He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

Matilda's answering smile made her amber eyes sparkle. "Well let's check out a menu." She swiped her key over the lock, letting them both into the room. Her cheeks flushed a bright pink as she took in the state of her room. "I…I've been living here so I…I've…" She ran out of excuses as she looked around her space. Dirty clothes were thrown over the chair, some of her weapons out on the table still. Her bathroom was cluttered with her makeup and other products.

John took the room in, analyzing. It looked lived in. Much more so than his home. It reminded him a little of Helen. She had been so organized, but the occasional thing would slip through, and she'd leave it for days. The hectic nature of the room made him feel more human than he had in…years. He sighed.

"Where's that menu?" He clapped his hands together and rubbed them, in anticipation.

Matilda relaxed her shoulders, pointed over to the table. John picked up the leather-bound book from underneath a pistol and started perusing. Matilda released a short breath and made a mental note to call housekeeping and start taking better care of her things. She took a step into the bathroom and gave herself a quick glance in the mirror. She decided she still looked fine, her makeup still in place. Her light red hair was down, had grown to reach her shoulder blades. Her golden amber eyes sparkled with nervousness, her thin lips in a tight line. She mentally willed herself to relax, take a breath. So, what if there's an attractive man in your room, and you haven't had sex in almost two years? This is fine.

She stepped back into the room and saw John had taken a seat on the bed, the only clean seat in the room, and was thumbing through the large menu. The Continental boasted a few world class chefs, and the menu changed seasonally.

"I'm thinking lamb." John's gruff voice filled the space, his gaze not looking up. "Or duck." He crinkled his nose in thought.

Matilda sat down next to him. "How about I get the duck, and we can share?" She replied, more provocatively than she felt.

John nodded his head, still not looking up. "Crème Brule for dessert?"

"A bottle of red wine to share?" Matilda leaned back on her hands, her weight shifting on the bed.

"Sounds great." John closed the menu and finally looked at her. She thought for a moment he looked just as trepidatious as she did. Having his own second thoughts. He didn't say anything else, just stood and walked to the phone. Called the kitchen and placed their order.

"So, how long did you live in London?" He asked her, walking back to the bed.

"Oh, years." Matilda rolled her head back on her shoulders, smiling. "I went to Oxford University. Graduated in 2007 with a degree in English Literature." She raised her eyebrow at his surprised expression. "What?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "Did you graduate early?"

A languid smile crossed Matilda's thin lips. "Are you trying to ask me how old I am?"

John shook his head a little, letting his hair cover his face. "I am." He cleared his throat again. "I've been thinking about talking to you again…after last time. But…" He let the thought linger between them.

She nodded knowingly. "I'm 32. I just stay out of the sun and moisturize."

He gave her another glance. Could see some wrinkles forming in the crinkles of her eyes. "Remind me to start moisturizing then." He joked lightly.

There was an awkward pause, neither of them knowing what to say. How to continue. The energy of the club had abated, and here alone…they were scared. After a few long moments of bloated silence, his hand drifted over to cover hers on the bed. Warm. "How do you know Winston?" he asked, curious.

Matilda let out a sigh, trying to ignore the tingles in her stomach. "He was friends with my father. I've known him since I was a little girl, growing up in Tennessee." She let her mind drift, as his fingers started lazily running over her hand. "They had grown up together, in New York. Had been friends and promised to look out for one another. Said if they ever made it big then they would take care of each other."

A small smile played across her lips. "They did. Dad told me they created the Continental together. Went to the High Table about it and got the funding. It was a roaring success. So, the High Table started opening hotels in more countries, more cities. People taking up the mantle of Manager."

"Then…I don't really know what happened. Mom never talked about it, and I've never asked Winston. But they fell out over something. Dad got angry. I was six when he died. And Winston took over being dad. We don't talk about that either, but he was there for every birthday party. Every school play. He was there when I graduated." Matilda breathed out through her nose. "He's the reason I did so well in school. I wanted to make him proud. Him and my mom. She died shortly after I started University, so she never saw me graduate."

"How did you…get involved?" John interjected, leaning back on his elbows.

Matilda shot him a glance, her head turned slightly to take him in. "Believe it or not, it's a lot easier to become an assassin than it is to get a job with a degree in English literature."

He laughed. A short, surprised, genuine chuckle. "I do."

"My mom wanted me to be a normal kid. But my dad insisted I at least take self-defense classes. When I got older, Winston insisted I take gun safety courses. Which…evolved." Her brow furrowed. "Even being on the gymnastics team was grooming me for this."

Before John could respond, there was a knock on the door. "Room service." A clipped voice on the other side.

"I'll get it." John was up before Matilda could protest. "Thank you." He led the server into the room, clearing space off on the table. "Just here is fine." He held a hand up, an indication to leave the cart where it was. John gave the server a gold coin and thanked him again, showing a hand towards the door.

"Thank you." Matilda offered a small smile as she stood. "I really am sorry it's such a mess in here. I didn't plan on having company."

"That's OK. I'm easy company." John took a lid off a tray and inhaled the aroma of the lamb. "This smells great." He took the top off the other large plate and handed it to her. He turned to the small table and started clearing space with startling efficiency. The few guns made their way to the dresser top, her knife the same spot. The garment bag she had thrown over half the table he walked to the bathroom door and hung up.

When he was done making room, he walked behind one of the chairs and pulled it out, an invitation to sit. Matilda smiled sweetly and sat in the offered chair. Only when he had pushed in her chair and poured her a glass of wine did he sit down himself.

John raised his own glass of wine towards her and gazed over its rim at the beautiful woman across from him, he toasted "Salud."

Matilda brought her own glass to clink against his and followed suit "Salud." She took a healthy sip of her wine, steeling her nerves, trying to quit the nausea she was feeling.

They ate in a mostly comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on the deliciousness of the meal, the talent of the chef. They stole bites from the others plate after an offering. John commented on his slight regret over not ordering the duck. He stood again after dinner, serving their shared dessert and offering Matilda a spoon. He moved his chair to be seated right next to her at the small table.

"Thanks for suggesting dinner." he intoned. His shoulder brushed hers as he tucked in for another bite.

"Thank you." She bumped his elbow with hers on the table. "For being alright with dinner."

John smiled knowingly. "I think dinner is great." The relief in his eyes was hard to miss, present in hers as well.

They had been braver people earlier that night. Floating on the heady taste of alcohol and approval from a man they both admired. All too soon dessert was finished, the wine nearly gone. John swirled the last of his drink before bringing the glass to his lips and swallowing.

He brought the glass down to the table, his fingers holding on gently. His dark brown eyes flicked up to watch Matilda as she took her own last sip of wine. His movements didn't betray the bundle of nerves he was – the tight coiling he felt in his stomach. He hadn't been on a date since Helen. Hadn't been brave enough, alone enough, to admit what was happening to him. He wallowed in his grief. Was safe there, comfortable. It was familiar. John cleared his throat to speak.

"I should probably-"

"Do you want to watch a movie?" Matilda interjected.

He blinked. "Sure." John leaned back in his chair, answering slowly. He had forgotten what this felt like. How hard it was to learn people, how fun.

"Great." Matilda sat up straighter. "Pick something out." She waved a hand towards the television in the room. "I'll clean up." She stood and started piling the plates on top of each other, moving them to the cart.

John stood and moved to the bed, taking off his shoes. He sat down and crossed his legs, took the remote and began looking. He couldn't remember the last time he'd watched a movie. He didn't even know what was out anymore. Things started to look the same, and half paying attention John clicked start on something. Half a moment later, her own shoes thrown in a corner, Matilda dropped onto the bed. She fluffed her pillows and then settled herself in, legs crossed over the comforter. She patted the space next to her invitingly.

John scooted himself up the length of the bed, mimicking her relaxed position. Even though he felt anything but.

"Star Trek huh? Are you secretly a nerd?" She rolled her head over to look at him, a playful smile on her mouth.

John shrugged and took a closer look at the TV. "When did they redo Star Trek?"

The only response was a snort followed by a laugh. They settled in, silence stretching between them as they tried to pay attention to the color flashes on the screen. 45 minutes into the film Matilda leaned over to whisper something, only to hear soft snoring, and the gentle sounds of John asleep. She stared for a moment, at how much younger he looked in his sleep. More peaceful. The weight of the world disappeared when he went to bed. Matilda carefully maneuvered the comforter up around them, pausing when she worried about waking him. After some careful finessing, John was underneath the blanket and still peacefully asleep.

Matilda rolled onto her side, staring openly at him. His long lashes, the slope of his nose. The wrinkles in the corners of his eyes almost disappeared as he slept. The bits of gray in his beard. She reached out a tentative hand…and almost laid it on his shoulder. Before she could she thought better of it, tightened her hand into a fist. She retreated, curling her hand into her chest as she laid down.

"Goodnight John." She whispered. She closed her own eyes and fell asleep to the sounds of blasters in the background.