Author's Note: Acknowledgement and grateful thanks to Andy Morgan, without whose expert advice this scene would be far less authentic!
Were he more Malcolm Reed now than Jag, he might not have detected it.
As it is, he's gone far back into his old self, and Jag relies as heavily on his senses as on his brain. All of his senses, even down to the nerves on the soles of his bare feet; and if it is one skill in which the jaguar excels, it's stealth. Even before his hand touches the recognition plate of his door, now programmed to admit only him as the legitimate guest, he knows that someone else has been here. During the day, the intruder might have got away with it, but now, at this hour, the air is still, and holds the phantom, alien scent.
His right hand begins the small ritual that prepares him mentally for killing. His fingers spread and curve. He imagines the claws.
He has the luxury of preparation, but little time. He doesn't want to give whoever it is more time than he can help to get themselves settled. Still, he takes a few seconds to loosen up; it takes both mind and body to perform at their utmost to survive a stealth attack. Without a sound he unfastens the leather thong from around his neck and fastens one end of it to the hilt of his knife, which he allows to dangle from it. Still in absolute silence he allows the blade to just kiss the door handle and the recognition plate. Electrocution is a favourite method for an assassin, but the blade turns slowly and silently, rather than being hurled away by an electric charge.
This established, he lowers his body and carefully smells the door fixings before drawing long soundless breaths of the air through the crack under the door. When he straightens again he's frowning, but a little of the tension has gone.
He presses his thumbprint to the recognition plate and the door opens quietly. If things were different he'd be in there at once, diving and rolling with his phase pistol drawn ready to fire as soon as he found where the intruder has hidden himself, but in the circumstances it will be much more impressive if he just walks in and speaks.
"Where I come from it's polite to wait till someone's at home," he says silkily, laying the phase pistol down on the table. His guess was correct; she's still here all right, though she's far too good at the game to let on where.
After a moment she steps out from behind the door into the bathroom. A bit unoriginal, he thinks sardonically, but the room's not luxurious; it doesn't offer many options for concealment. That was his prime reason for choosing it.
She doesn't apologise. He doesn't expect her to. As for how she got in here, that's elementary – the team always made a habit of sharing its skills, and presumably still does. If being a warp drive engineer and a Section operative ever palls, Spots has the talents to make a handsome living out of burglary; he says that locks amuse him.
She closes the distance between them with short, angry steps. If she had a tail, she'd be lashing it.
"How long are you planning to stay?" she demands.
He doesn't dignify the question with an answer, unless the slight lift of one side of his lip tells her anything. He moves to the fridge and checks that a single hair he'd inserted into the seal just below the bottom hinge is still in place. Reassured on that score, he opens the door and takes out a bottle of fruit juice. When he put it in there earlier he was careful to put his fingerprints on the top, and now he uses his scanner to check they're still there before he opens it. After all, the hair could have been noticed and replaced, and poison is just as apt a tool.
Still without speaking, he throws himself down on to the couch and sprawls there negligently, sipping the sweet liquid with his eyes shut. After a few moments he opens one eye and glances up in pained surprise: What, not gone yet?
It's just as well he loosened up, because she's bloody quick. His head has only just vacated the cushion before her right boot hits it like a hammer, a door breaker to open! This bitch means business.
He, on the other hand, has struck even as he launched himself up and away, and the open hand to the face is a shot to nothing, but it does what it was intended to. As she reacts backwards she's off balance and he has the half a heartbeat he needs to get his distance and turn to face her, watching in bright-eyed malice for what she'll do next.
Reed and Hayes, Hayes and Reed, it's history replaying itself, and this time there's no Captain Archer to tear strips off the combatants. He won't kill her, though he'd like to; he'll just let her a little blood and teach her a much-needed lesson. He's still holding the bottle and he leans aside, cat-quick, to smash it against the wall. The sight of broken glass always has a hypnotic fascination for an amateur (not that he thinks she is one), and the fact that it's in his right hand may help her forget he's ambidextrous. The hilt of his knife now protrudes from the pocket, like an old friend, ready and waiting for when he wants it.
But she has a trick up her sleeve too, and it's the first time that one's been used against him: her top comes off with a rending of Velcro, leaving her in nothing but a very small pair of pants. As she comes leaping over the couch at him, sheer surprise holds him still for just the split second she was counting on. He parries late, but he gets there, and the vicious slash of the broken bottle opens a thin red line on her naked side. Her free hand goes for his eyes, fingers rigid, and he admires her technique, though naturally he doesn't hang around to be one of her successes.
Her body's oiled, and his snap kick slides off her belly as she turns instead of delivering all the force it should have done. She's behind him in a flash, her left arm snaking round his neck, her right coming up to secure the choke; her height advantage is already lifting him onto his toes as the pressure comes on. A sharp elbow to the abdomen presents her head nicely for a throw, and he takes it promptly, and isn't gentle.
She lands hard in front of him, his shin across her throat almost before she lands. See how she likes some back! He looks down on her, a cruel grin on his face, as she struggles to get his weight off, cherishing the feel of the revenge he'd promised himself for that 'Royal Navy reject' gibe. But he underestimates both her resolve and her flexibility, and the kick to the head she gets in sends him staggering away, delivering a soft sibilant stream of expletives. As he shakes his head clear she's back up again, rubbing her neck, and if looks could kill he'd be deader than venison.
He draws his knife, kisses the blade and points it at her eyes, the broken bottle cast aside for a more familiar weapon. She's mistaking him for Malcolm Reed, but he's Jag now, and Jag's a vicious bastard, and she'll find that out if she pushes her luck hard enough. They can cover up the evidence, they're Section and they lie and lie, and she's fucking picked the wrong man to prove a point to. "Come on bitch, if you think you're hard enough..." He flicks the point of the blade gently, calling her on.
"You should have stayed away," she pants. The knife she's brought has a smooth edge and a serrated one; a row of nicks in the hilt may or may not be bravado, but personally he thinks it's vulgar either way. Still, it's a plus for the team that she wants her place so badly she's willing to kill for it. His gaze never leaves her eyes, but that doesn't stop him admiring the view with his peripheral vision.
The next attacks are a blur: blades, hands, elbows and knees striking and parrying, with no time for conscious thought, only seasoned training and instinct. Both sides land cuts and blows on the other but neither are able to gain the upper hand. A line of fire slices across his left forearm as he tries to evade a stab that would have left him short of a lung – a small price to pay by comparison, but still a weakness for her to exploit. He staggers, pulling the arm to his chest as if to protect it and putting up his other hand to feel the damage.
She saunters back, plainly feeling the win and already revelling in the glory. She's battered, cut and bloody but still manages to look fucking superior. He tries a thrust with the knife but the cut has weakened his grip, and she blocks it easily with a hard forearm, the weapon flying away from the force and the pain. She points her own knife back at his eyes. "Do you think I'm hard enough now, bitch?'" she purrs. "You're done, old news, washed up and wasted. Make way for new blood." For a second the light dims in his eyes as her words sink in, and his head droops.
Her smile broadens as she relishes that evidence of his broken spirit, and her knife is tossed carelessly on to the couch, no longer necessary. She slinks towards him, demonstrating the feline grace of her namesake as she's already demonstrated the fighting prowess; she steps in close, running a finger across his cheek, down to his bloody arm, her nail scoring along the deep gash she's given him so that his arm and shoulder flinch away. "Just not enough tricks for an old dog," she says with mocking sympathy.
The strike to the throat hits before she's finished her taunt, a cheap but powerful shot designed to shock rather than kill; it fetches a gasp and sends her head flying back, a bloody hand print splashed across her throat like the collar of a household cat or a brand, staking a claim on what's rightfully his. He's already moving before she's able to react; a solid knee to the solar plexus doubles her over again, straight into a second throat-strike, this time keeping hold and lifting her up to his full reach and then throwing her down, hard to the floor. Maybe because he endured one too many beatings growing up or just because his spark has never left him fully; yes he's broken inside, yes he's had to bear too much for any man, but that's his battle to fight and no cut from a bit of tail can make him feel more hurt than he already does. He can go no lower than he already is so every fucking step he takes now is up.
So there it ends: she's winded and dazed from hitting the floor, and his hand is still on her throat, blood drying in the final embrace of the fight. As his breathing slows, the red mist clears and his anger and self-loathing ooze back into the dark recesses of his soul. He looks down at his erstwhile opponent with something perilously close to respect. This 'piece of tail' has damn near bested him, and she certainly wouldn't fall for his parlour tricks and fakery a second time. She's a strong member of a good team whom he'd pushed aside without a thought as he walked back in the door. He knows exactly how she'd felt; he'd felt the identical corrosive jealousy and fear when Hayes was brought on board Enterprise, seeing in every word and gesture of the MACO who technically outranked him confirmation that his own position was deeply threatened. He has a suspicion that his visit to Leo's room at so late an hour has been the final straw; maybe there's the beginning of something there that is more than she can endure to have snatched away from her too. As she lies there he has leisure to observe once more that she's wearing practically nothing – a fact he certainly couldn't afford to take notice of until now. At one word he'll release her, but she doesn't say it; instead, she lies there staring up at him with eyes that are flecked with green and brown like mossy stones in a stream-bed, staring as though studying the very depths of his soul. Is there a hint of respect in those eyes too? As far as the team's concerned she's his nemesis and rival but in some ways she's already his equal, and no longer nearly as forgettable as he first thought….
Her mouth tastes of blood, hers or his own or both, he doesn't know. He's branded her and now he claims her, and they both ignore the bruises and the hot sting of sweat in open cuts as they roll over and over, as much fighting as fucking. Her teeth savage his shoulder but her legs lock him in place, and her claws raking his back testify eloquently to his skills as a lover as well as a fighter. They're both too excited for it to last long; all too soon her frenzied bucking snaps his control, so that there's no way to deny himself even if he wanted to. He loses it, howling release and vindication together as another part of his lost soul fits painfully back into place.
Afterwards they go into the shower together, washing each other's hurts carefully. The cut on his arm could use a few stitches if it's not to scar, so she attends to that without fuss, and they both apply dermagel to the more minor cuts they inflicted, to help them heal. Room service brings them up drinks, and once these are verified safe they sit together peacefully sipping one of the local beverages, not saying much. After a while she drapes herself across his knees, and he quietly massages the muscles in her back, working out one or two knots he finds there.
Later, her eyes say she expects to leave. He's expected the same right up till this moment, but almost against his will a soft touch detains her. They're not friends and never will be, but there's something between them now that feels like security, even rest. He doesn't know what she feels, and doesn't ask, but she consents to stay; and that, perhaps, is his greatest victory of all.
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