Chapter 3: Reconnect

On Thursday evening, Remington dawdled on his climb up the three flights of stairs to Laura's loft, more than a bit nervous about what the evening ahead held in store. He wasn't foolish enough to believe that their interlude in the plane's restroom or even the successful resolution of the case, had resolved the matters between them. The poor little nebbish, Marvin, had been dispatched when it was made clear a choice had to be made: Mildred or him. There was never a choice at all. At the end of the day, Mildred was far more than just their secretary, she was family. Family that had him nailed to the wall and knew it, and he suspected he'd be called on the carpet this evening for the guarantees she'd managed to extract from him. He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd both hoped and prayed, Laura had decided to leave the issues swept under the proverbial rug, but hadn't been at all surprised when she'd announced earlier in the afternoon that she'd had time to think and they needed to 'talk.'

Seldom, in his experience, was the phrase 'time to think' synonymous with anything good. The last time she'd used the phrase, in fact, he'd been left completely gutted.

"Not having it has given me time to think."

"About what?"

"Is that piece of paper the only thing that's keeping us together? Do we really have anything else in common besides this agency?"

"Laura, if you're talking about my allergy to legwork-"

"No, it's got nothing to do with that. Don't you see? I mean, losing our license may be the very best thing that ever happened to us. Maybe it'll give us time to think about how we really feel towards each other…"

Pausing at her door, he took a long minute to worry a thumbnail, before plastering what he hoped appeared to be a casual smile on his face and rapping on her door. She pulled the door open in short order.

"Come in," she offered, giving him a faint smile as he pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek in greeting. As she pulled the door closed, he allowed his eyes to roam over her, taking some comfort in how she was dressed: White jeans, black silk shell, hair back in a French braid. In the past, whether it was a conscious choice or not, she'd dressed to kill when giving him the axe. And killed she had, he couldn't help but recall.

She indicated the coffee table with a wave of her hand where two wine glasses stood along with a decent vintage of chardonnay. At least it isn't tea…

"Would you care to do the honors?" she asked, easily noting the tension in his frame and the nervous tick in his jaw. She quickly and accurately surmised the reason.

"Of course," he agreed, flashing her another of the strained smiles with which he'd greeted her. She considered, briefly, letting him dangle but in the end realized it would do little good. She wanted them to move forward, to recapture the intimacy, the openness they'd had not even a week ago. Then, she would have stepped to him and assured him all would be fine. Now? She felt like they'd taken so many steps backwards in only a couple of days' time, she was uncertain of how such boldness would be received. So, instead, she wrapped her arms around herself and looked towards the ceiling, possibly hoping the answers were there, which, of course, they weren't.

And, in the end, she let instinct drive her next actions. She stepped to him as he picked up the bottle of wine, and grasping his hips, lay her forehead against his chest. He'd been caught unaware, as she'd intended, and as such, hadn't an opportunity to devise a guise to cover what he was feeling. The hand holding the bottle of wine dropped to his side, while his other hand cupped the back of her neck as he let out a long breath of air.

"I'm just trying to understand why, nothing more," she told him, looking up at him. He didn't have to ask her what she meant. He'd had, after all, two long, lonely nights to think about it. He nodded, then stepping away from her, sat the bottle of wine back on the table, and turned to pace several steps away, before raising a hand and dropping it.

"I didn't purposefully set out to deceive you, Laura. This is not like Daniel, or Cannes, or any number of other times I've abused your trust." He turned to face her, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck, only to find her shaking her head at him.

"Deceive is not quite the word I'd use," she told him hesitantly. "Doing an end run around me would be more accurate, and I don't understand why. I thought we had an understanding: no more games."

"Understanding. An interesting choice of words, as if I were honest, and I'm trying to be, I'd have to say that's likely exactly the reason for the why of it all." Her brows furrowed, not understanding.

"Care to elaborate?" The words sounded snarkier than she'd intended them to be but she let them stand.

"I was approached about giving a couple of guest lectures at USC shortly after we'd wrapped up the Crunch Kramer case," he explained, as he began to pace between kitchen and living room. "I was still, irritated, as it were, having realized our decision… our understanding… that from here on out we'd have a true partnership was not as it seemed. That when push came to shove, nothing had really changed at all."

"How can you even say that?" she demanded to know, offended by the implication she'd been less than honest in that agreement.

"How can I….?" he gave a short laugh. "How can you question how I can say that? You do recall how we came to take on that particular case, don't you?"

"Laura, are you aware I've already turned Mr. Kramer down?"

"You what?"

"Two days ago. You can still see his shoe prints in the carpet. Ask Mildred."

"Ok Millie. Front and center."

"I know this case has been rejected, but I think Crunch really needs our help. I had to go to the boss for a second opinion," Mildred explained.

"The boss has spoken, Mildred," Remington interjected.

"She means me and she has a point," Laura noted.

"I thought we had a partnership?"

"We do. But it remains my agency and I have to be involved in all major decisions. Now I think that Mildred may be right in this case. Crunch appears to be on the level. So, if you'll excuse me."

"It is my Agency," she defended.

"Exactly my point," he retorted, voice rising. "There's no equality, nothing's changed. It's still the same as it ever was, your words that day nearly echoing those in Cannes a year before!"

"Where was I?"

"I think it was something to the effect that I can't get it through my head that… "

"I count in all this!"

"Laura, I wanted to include you but I couldn't because I knew damn well how you'd react. My friend needed help and he needed it fast."

"Well and you've done a great job. With any luck, we can stay alive and out of jail for at least another hour or two."

"Wait a minute. That's not the point. This partnership you keep trumpeting has a rather lopsided lean to it. I couldn't come to you in my hour of need because I knew that if you disagreed, there would be no room, no room whatsoever for discussion. That's a partnership? How do you think that makes me feel?"

"But it's my Agency!"

"Even worse," he continued, "You 'put me in my place' in front of Mildred… who'd already circumvented my alleged authority by going to you in the first place, might I point out!"

"So to… what?... retaliate?... you decided to guest lecture at USC?" she posited. He drew a hand through his hair at the question.

"I don't know, to be honest. It's not as though I've not been entrusted dozens of times in the past to give similar speeches, and even now, unless I'm mistaken, don't you have me scheduled to do precisely that two months hence as the keynote speaker at the East-West Convention?" He blew out a long, frustrated breath. "But did I agree to those lectures, because I had a point to prove? I can't say it didn't play a part, although it wasn't the only reason."

"And hiring an intern without even discussing it with me? Was that also another point you needed to prove?" she wanted to know, as she unconsciously lifted her fingers to a knead her brow.

"While I'd like to say it was only because no one was inclined to give the lad a chance or because I believed he might have something to offer the Agency, both of which are true, I can't deny there were, perhaps, more… selfish reasons… also at play," he conceded.

"Such as your dry cleaning, tickets to the opera, scheduling your hair appointments-" she listed as she began building up steam.

"No!" he cut in wearily. "Although they were nice perks once I came to realize…" He let the thought trail off. "It was that I'd have at least one person in the office again who didn't constantly gaze on me with that veiled look of suspicion in their eyes," he told her truthfully, rubbing at his mouth and turning away. The admission halted her anger in its tracks.

"Mildred adores you, Mr. Steele," she contradicted.

"Adored. Past tense. Ever since she's learned the truth, I'm nothing but a thief and conman in her eyes now. She's made that clear enough. Bloody hell, in her estimation, she's more qualified than I for my job." He sat down heavily on the couch and held up his hands watching her pace now.

"Is that why you treated me like you did on the plane? You blame me for telling Mildred?" she wondered. He laughed dryly.

"No, I imagine that was a bit of tit-for-tat," he grimaced. "You'd unilaterally dismissed my attempts to speak to you about the young Slottman, then, to add insult to injury, ordered me about like a lad in knickers. Both sore points for myself as is being treated…" he bobbled his head "…like less than an equal is for you." She nodded slowly as she sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

"You had a point to prove," she summarized definitively. He barked a laugh at that, drawing her gaze.

"I wouldn't credit me as having given it that much thought," he corrected, giving her a rueful look. "Impetuous churlishness, at best." Leaning over, she poured them each a glass of wine and handed one to him.

"I suppose," she drew out the second word thoughtfully, as she curled up in the corner of the couch, "The same could be said about myself, when I told Mildred about your past in London. I didn't think it through, or I would have realized the damage it would do," she admitted. Then straightening, looked him in the eyes. "I'll speak to Mildred, make it clear—"

"Don't bother," he told her, waving a hand at her for her to stop. Leaning back against the couch, he propped his feet on the coffee table. "You can't take back what she knows or how she feels about it, Laura. But a little solidarity would go a long way towards showing her you and I are a team, regardless of my past." She nodded slowly, before standing, and sitting down again next to him.

"We are a team, Remington. I know there are times it may appear to you that I don't recognize that, but I do. Not in spite of your past, maybe in large part because of it," she mulled. His arm dropped around her shoulders without thought and she shifted imperceptibly closer to him in response.

"Oh, how's that?" he asked.

"The skills you honed in those days, the instincts you developed? They're an invaluable asset to our partnership, especially when combined with your natural intelligence. It's all of you and your experiences that make you the investigator you are." The corners of his mouth lifted at the unexpected compliments. "Then there's the other…" she trailed off, intentionally seeking to arouse his innate curiosity.

"The other?" She suppressed her smile.

"I know who you are now and who you were then. I've watched you change… choose to change… and it was rarely easy. I meant what I said to you last week." She needn't explain what she meant, for the words had been the most meaningful words ever spoken of him in his life.

"Thanks."

"What for?"

"For saving my life this afternoon. For being here… For being you."

She caressed his chest, drawing him away from the memory. He looked down at her uplifted face.

"I happen to hold you in high regard, Mr. Steele." A smile lifted his lips in a crooked grin and lit his blue eyes. But, when he leaned in to touch his lips to hers, he found her leaning away. "This," she flicked her hand between the two of them, "Means a lot to me and I think it does to you, too."

"You know it does," he told her, palming her cheek.

"Then we can't let what happened this week happen again," she remarked. "I'll give you my word to fully take into account your thoughts, your opinions on anything that might come up, but you need to give me your word not to resort to the old… habits… that made it so hard for me to trust you." He looked at her solemnly.

"Done," he promised, then leaned in again, only to find a hand holding him back still.

"And if you ever treat me again like you did while we were undercover, I won't be held responsible for my actions," she warned.

"Nor will I blame you," he agreed, raising his brows while his face remained serious. "I assure you, should we find ourselves in such roles again, I'll merely content myself with admiring how a little tutu like that skirt shows off your knock-out legs…" he kissed her, "…the delightful curve or your bottom…" then again, "…the glorious twitch of your hips as you walk…" and again, as she laughed beneath his lips.

"You're incorrigible," she scolded between kisses.

"You wouldn't happen to have that absurdly titillating little outfit still laying about would you?" he asked, his lips leaving hers to peer around the loft in search of it.

"I might," she drawled suggestively, as she lay back and drew him down to stretch out over top of her. She raked her hand through his hair before settling it at the back of his neck to toy with his hair. "Be careful what you ask for, Remington. You have your fantasies, but I, too, have mine." He leaned back down to bestow a tantalizing kiss upon her lips.

"I'm game if you are," he murmured, before settling his mouth fully over hers.

On Friday evening, Remington arrived at Laura's loft with his garment bag slung over his shoulder. He eyed her with open curiosity when she pulled open the door and stood before him in a gold leotard trimmed in black and red, with a pair of red tights.

"A night in, then, I wager?" he guessed, his feet stuttering to a stop when he saw the trapezes they'd used two year prior when they gone undercover at Cordero's Fabulous Fun Time Circus had been reinstalled and hung from the rafters above. "A case?"

"You'll find your clothes waiting for you in the bathroom," she told him, pressing herself up on her toes, and giving him a steamy little kiss. "Tonight, one of my fantasies… Tomorrow night, one of yours…" She nodded towards her stewardess uniform, replete with little cap, hanging off the railing to her bedroom. He swallowed hard, even as he felt his blood surge. He looked to one of the trapezes with some skepticism.

"Do you imagine us up to the task at hand?" he wondered. She drew a hand down his front before relieving him of his garment bag.

"You know what they say, Mr. Steele. "Where there's a will…'"

"'There's a way," he finished, his eyes lighting up with all the possibilities.

"Go get dressed," she suggested, with a lift of her brows and a daring smile.

"One order I'll gladly follow, Miss Holt," he grinned, crossing the room to the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

His laughter filtered through the loft when he opened the bag which hung there and found the red, sleeveless, long legged unitard, complete with gold belt, that he'd worn during their stint as trapeze artists.

"Mmmm," he hummed, as he began stripping off his shirt. "You know me too well, love. I never could resist an impossible challenge."