Hello everyone! This is another chapter that's slightly on the shorter side, but good news! It's another funny chapter, and sees the return of everyone'a favorite gruff, solemn, double agent, Joe Solomon.
It was a Tuesday night, but it still wasn't easy to get reservations for two at DC's most exclusive French restaurant, Toulouse. Toulouse was just south of Embassy Row, in Georgetown, and was popular among anyone who had anyone to impress, sugh as celebrities or visiting foreign dignitaries (except, of course, for the French dignitaries who turned up their noses and scoffed at the suggestion of eating American French food).
Part of the restaurant's appeal was how small and homey it was. It was based on the first floor of an old brick colonial townhouse. On the inside, it was warm and intimate, with mismatched antique tables, low lights, and heavy red drapery over the windows. It gave the building a kind of aged respectability that was genuinely ironic when one considered the number of shady, treasonous deals between politicians and all of the dates between men and their mistresses that occurred there.
When Matt and Rachel arrived, they were seated by the maître de at a small table in the corner of the room with a single glowing candle in the center. Matt helped Rachel into her chair, returning her glare with a charming smile as he deliberately took the seat with the better view of the dining area.
"You're not starting this date off on the right foot, Flatwater." Rachel sneered, casking her eyes down to the prix fixe menu.
"I'm paying, Themis. I get the better view."
"You're not paying."
"How do you feel about oysters for the first course?" Matt asked, his voice slightly louder. He was absolutely not paying attention to Rachel as she rolled her eyes. "Do you like oysters?"
"No, I hate them."
"Good. Me too, but I was going to make you happy and order the oysters if that's what you wanted. Gravlax it is, then."
"How do you know that I didn't want the salad for the first course? Are you going to pick my entrée for me, too, Matthew, dear?"
"Rachel, darling." Matt reached his arm across the table, and brushed one hand across Rachel's cheek, hyper aware of the fact that the sleeve of his best suit was very close to the flickering flame of the candle, and if Rachel wanted retribution, she could just knock his arm to the side and into the flame. But Rachel just stared, dead eye, at him in reply. "Give me some credit as an operative, and as your boyfriend. You hate salad. It's been six months, and I've never seen you order a salad. When you see someone else order a salad, you always wrinkle your nose."
Rachel maintained her dead-eye stare as Matt withdrew his hand and picked up the wine list. Rachel, meanwhile, took a deep breath, and sighed.
"Okay, I hate salad."
Matt have a satisfied hum, keeping his eyes on the wine menu.
"Don't be so smug about it. You're not that good at your job."
"Love you too, darling."
Rachel set her menu on the table, and, raising her eyebrows, opened her mouth to say, "Don't—" but then she was cut off by the sound of crackling static in her ear.
"As cute as this is to listen to, the subject's approaching the restaurant. If the two of you could just pretend that you're on a date and do your job, everyone would appreciate it. Including your employers."
Rachel and Matt's eyes met across the table, and even though neither allowed even the tiniest emotional response to show on their face, they knew exactly what the other was thinking. After a second, Matt winked, and in the most casual gesture, brushed his hand across the microphone hidden in his lapel pin. There was a sudden burst of static in their ears, but to Rachel and Matt, it was more than worth it to hear the man on the other side of the comms units cry out in pain at the jarring noise.
"Rot in hell, Flatwater." He said, after a moment.
"I'll add it to my to do list, Wise Guy." He smirked.
Rachel and Matt were on their best possible behavior as they sampled the wine and the gravlax. But then it came time for their subject, a middle aged man from Italy who had no legitimate authority to act as a diplomat but did so anyway, to excuse himself to use the restroom, and Matt needed to follow. Rachel, meanwhile, needed to distract the subject's dinner partner, the junior senator from Florida.
Suffice to say, sometimes Matt and Rachel's jobs required them to not act on their best behavior.