Well-Suited

3 - Fire

Foolish, he had been, to think they hadn't been caught. He could take one, maybe two men- what if there were more? He was not the trained assassin he once was. Meg's hands wrapped around his wrist, which held her still where she sat.

There was a knock at the door.

"Sir?"

Meg squeaked, the sound muffled by his hand. He tensed, ready to throttle whoever was on the other side of the door.

"Hello, sirs? I'm sorry to disturb you but–"

The tone was positively American – Brooklyn, by the sound of it. Erik breathed again. Their cab driver. Erik pushed the door open.

"Yes?" He scowled. He did not like to be scared, no less by young men in livery.

"Where – thank you, again, sir –" no doubt about the hefty sum Erik tossed at him as they had taken off. "Where, sir – sirs," he corrected. Meg smiled. "Where are you going? I mean, where should I take you?"

Erik sighed, peering at the night behind them. They were not being pursued. He was sure this fight was long from over with the Irish, but tonight they seemed to have called off the dogs.

"Coney Island," he said. "Phantasma."

The boy nodded and Erik watched him hop back into the driver's seat, his height no issue with his lithe jump from the ground to the chair.

Erik closed the carriage door; he was still crouching in the small carriage when he felt a tug on his sleeve by the woman behind him. He frowned; he was tired, and out of breath, and ready for this adventure to be over. But then her smile and her eye roll charmed him and he forced himself to put it behind him.

"Sir," she wiggled her eyebrows.

"Sir," he returned.

"My trouser role was a rousing success," she reminded him, pulling him closer to her, back to his knees. "Perhaps we could put it in the show."

He nodded, the adrenaline had worn off to make way for a blanket of exhaustion. "Perhaps."

"I was quite convincing," she ran a hand up his chest.

"Mhm..."

"And we made our money back," she found his cravat, used it to her advantage, and pulled him closer. He could feel her breath on his skin.

"Yes," he hissed between gritted teeth, keeping his hands to himself. He had already decided, and would not be tempted. Meg was not - could not be used like this. She was different.

"Perhaps," she whispered, her breath filling his open mouth. Just an inch more and their lips would touch. He held his breath. "Perhaps I was right," she suggested.

He gasped at her brashness. "No." He corrected. "You put us in danger, you completely ignored my orders-"

"Oh, you give orders now? Yes sir, general sir," she mocked him, her hand still gripping his cravat, not letting him pull away.

"You know what I mean," he said. "I had it handled."

"It didn't seem like that," she tilted her head and he wanted to wring that pretty little neck. His mouth watered. "It seemed you needed my help."

"I don't need help. I never–" the hollow of her throat shone in the street lights that flew by the moving carriage.

"Hmm?" She was the arrogant one now, smirking as she caught sight of his expression. "What was that?"

But two could play at that game, and his hand slid up the thin wool he so craved to touch, but he could not win his turn when he so obviously shuddered to feel the heat of her skin against his broad palm.