After almost two hours – yes, hours – of whining and complaining about being hungry, I caved and offered to buy Barnes dinner. I beckoned over a waiter and asked him for a menu, much to Barnes's delight; I had to calm him down with the reminder that money was limited between us, but he still tapped his foot as he opened the leather-bound book. After a few minutes of debate, we both settled on a steak – I was called a 'copycat' for the choice but neither of us would change our order, pride or no.

            Soon enough, our food arrived at the hands of a new waiter. I furrowed my brows at the change. This one was a stark contrast to the fair-haired boy that took our orders. He stood at least a foot taller, baring a shaved head with shoulders so wide I wondered how he managed to fit through the aisle.

            But I didn't care about his looks. I cared about the plates he brought with him.

            I could hear the sizzling before I spotted the steak, and licked my lips as the waiter raised the plate with a smile, ready to present it before us. The smell drifted down, stroking our faces in a wave of savoury warmth.

            "Your food," he said.
"No shit, Sherlock," said Barnes, eyeing up the steak with greed. Air caught in my throat and I let it out a sigh.
"Well... Here you go then, I suppose," said the waiter, setting the plates down in a stiff and awkward movement. I shook my head at Barnes as he picked up his cutlery, pulling a confused face at my reaction.

            "Sorry about him," I said, shooting Barnes a glare. He gawked at me, mouthing protest.
The waiter shook off my apology with a gesture that shifted his white sleeve upwards. "No worries," he assured. "That's quite alright."

            I glanced at his forearm as he pulled the sleeve back down, covering the dark circular symbol tattooed on his skin. He had rather tough skin for a waiter, actually. Most hospitality workers, particularly those working in classy establishments such as this train cart, were meticulous with their appearance. I wondered if he also spent time cooking and preparing the food also, drying out his hands with hard work and strict schedules.

            I stared longingly at my steak and reached for the fork. Finally!

            "What's the occasion?" the waiter then asked.
I bit back a sigh and let go of the fork, meeting Barnes's eyes. He flashed a devious smirk.
"You see," he said, "we're actually on our honeymoon."

Evil, evil man. I had to go along with it and mask my distaste with a tight-lipped smile, willing a nod in agreement. He could have easily said there was no occasion to the trip but no, he wanted to torture me again.

              The waiter blinked. "Really?"
I frowned. He was surprised. "Yes," I replied, albeit begrudgingly. "Yes, we are."
"Can I see the ring?" the waiter asked. I shared a wary look with Barnes. Were we being interrogated or dragged into a casual conversation? Barnes bit the inside of his cheek and, in a moment of panic in which all two of his braincells seemed to die, took an onion ring from his plate and shoved it on my ring finger.

            I closed my eyes and exhaled, overcome by utter embarrassment.

            "I took it off to eat," I said, forcing a smile as I looked back up at the waiter. "It's new. I didn't want to risk ruining it."
He looked between the two of us for a moment then took a step back. "Then I suppose congratulations are in order. Enjoy your meals."

            When he left, Barnes swivelled around in his seat to watch him disappear at the end of the aisle. He was frowning when he turned back around.
"That was... strange," I muttered.
"Agreed." His eyes lit up at the plate of food laid before him. "But we have more pressing issues."

            He lifted his cutlery to dig into his steak, then remembered the onion ring.

            I snatched my hand away. "Oh, no you don't."

"That's mine!" His jaw dropped.
"This is the cost of the social carnage you just caused," I said, taking a large bite with a challenging grin.
He tutted. "I think you just like to tease me."
"What?" I cocked my head. "Like this?"

            I reached over and stabbed his second onion ring with my fork. Barnes gasped in horror and snatched it back.

            He sliced right into his steak after that, ignoring my quiet chuckle at his reaction. I dug into my own food, still smiling as I bit into a mouthful of steak.

            Barnes looked up from his meal and favoured watching me eat. My cheeks sore, I met his eyes and he continued eating.

            His mouth was full again before I had time to ask him what he was staring at.

***

The meal was exquisite. The steak had been fried so much that the flavour had been locked in the soft meat with a crispy shell coated in a tangy marinade. It reminded me of a meal Scotty and I once had sitting outside a pub in the middle of June – one of the first times we saw each other outside of work. Beside it sat a handful of salted chips, a hot juicy tomato that poured onto the plate once cut, and a few crispy onion rings tossed among the meat.

            Cutlery rattled as Barnes relaxed his hands and slumped back into his chair.

            "I need to sleep... for a week," he breathed, groaning. I bit back a laugh in fear that I may have thrown up. Instead, I murmured in agreement, eyeing up our matching empty plates. That final chip was a mistake.

            "Thank you," Barnes said. "You could have let me starve."
A smile tugged on the corners of my lips. "You wouldn't have shut up if I did."
"True." He shrugged. "Until given food, I would make your life hell."
I tilted my head. "Don't you do that already?"

            His face fell and I had to smile to show him I was joking. He shook his head when he realised, a small laugh escaping his lips.

            He watched me for a moment. "Do you cook much?" he asked.
I blinked in surprise. It was an oddly normal question. "I don't really have the time," I admitted.

            By translation, I could not cook whatsoever. Scotty did not bother to hide his disgust at my last attempt: a so-called carbonara with a nutty texture and far too much black pepper that made him have a coughing fit. Everything I ate was from a jar, takeaway, restaurant, or Scotty's kitchen. He was not bad at cooking – not great – but he made sure that I ate a full meal every night. His baking was far superior. Almost every time we returned home from long-haul missions I would drop hints that I was after some of his chocolate chip cookies, even going so far as to pin the recipe to his front door one time.

            "Do you?" I asked.
Barnes shrugged. "I like trying new things. I cook at home because more popular restaurants tend to water a lot of foods down, like with spices and herbs."
I poured a glass of iced water for each of us. "Have you been to many places to try them?"
"Quite a few, I suppose. Italy was my favourite, but there was also France, the States, Japan, loads."
I raised my brows. "On holidays?"
He took the glass and shook his head. "Oh no, I couldn't afford that. But overseas missions have their perks, right?"
I didn't answer.
"Right?"

                I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table. For years, Scotty and I completed missions that had us in and out of a country within a matter of hours. It was rare we had the time to explore the areas and learn of different cultures. "I never have the chance," I excused, taking a sip of the water. "It's just one mission after another." 
"Benefits of my lousy wage, I suppose. You Senior Agents can't have everything."
I let out a sigh. Even if there were no lies in what he said, I couldn't help but be envious of the freedom he had between missions. "You seem to have travelled all over," I said.
Barnes nodded. "Honestly, I think Alistair just wanted me out of his way."
I spoke before a second thought, "And now he wants you back."
His face stilled. "He does."
"Why?"
His throat bobbed. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

            He forced a tight-lipped smile in an almost-apology. I looked towards the window. The sky had turned dark, the clouds I spotted earlier expanding across the sky and latching onto the horizon as a downpour of rain struck the window. There was a low rumble, and I wondered if it was the wheels of the train or the early signs of a coming storm.

            "Excuse me."

            The waiter had returned, smiling cordially as he held out two small glasses of red wine.

            "Compliments from the chef," he said, placing them gently before us, careful not to spill any of the contents.
"Oh." I eyed up the swirling red liquid, mouth watering. I had a bad experience with red wine once, but felt it rude to decline the offer. "Thank you."
Barnes picked up the glass and inspected it, holding it up to the light while I watched the waiter's stance. "Yeah. Thanks."

            The waiter smiled but did not leave. I tugged my lips up to will him to go, but he would not budge, keen eyes watching as I lifted the glass to my lips.

            I gasped as the glass was thrown from my hands. It pinged and shattered on the ground, the wine staining it red.

            Barnes. "What the hell are you—!"
"You can't drink alcohol, remember? Not for two weeks," he said, his tone urgent and whispering a warning beneath his words. I kept my face blank, understanding why he threw the glass – why he wanted so desperately for me to not drink the wine.

            Because it was poisoned.

            "I'm sorry," Barnes continued. "Doctor's orders, I'm afraid."
"I see." The waiter paused, then his lips tugged to one side as a thought struck him. "Why don't you drink it? It's a new brand, you see. The chef would love to know how customers react to it."

            If it was not confirmed before, it was now. Any other waiter would have understood our hesitations and took the wine away, but not him. But who washe? I assumed this was an associate of those who attacked us in the helicopter. Alistair said he would ensure us safe passage to London, but apparently this was not the case.

            "I'm sorry, but I'm not one for wine," Barnes said, handing out his glass. "Apologise to the chef for me, would you? Do tell him that I enjoyed the meal, though."
The mask slipped from the waiter's face as he lost his smirk. "Sir, I'm afraid that I must insist. This wine is very expensive and it has already been poured to celebrate your honeymoon."

            My eyes trailed down to his side where the waiter clenched his fist. I looked back at Barnes, who read my face like a book. We were one bad decision from a violent incident in a public area.

            Shooting the hostile was never an option. Even tasering or throwing a punch would have alerted any of his allies on the train, not to mention the passengers would have been ruffled by the ordeal. We were a secret service. To expose ourselves so easily would come at great cost to the agency. The risk of attracting attention was too high.

            But maybe that attention was not so unwanted, after all.

            "I'd rather not drink it," Barnes said. "Again, I'm really sorry."
"Why not drink it?" I pressed.
His lips parted in overwhelming shock. He couldn't read me. "What?" he hissed.
I shrugged. "It's just wine, isn't it? It won't kill you."

            Barnes opened his mouth to reply but no sound came out; he only frowned at my blank expression. Shaking his head, he sighed and reached for the glass.

            I stood up. "I'll just be a minute," I raised my voice. "I feel a little dizzy." Other passengers turned away from their meals and conversations to watch me push my way out the booth, rubbing my forehead.
Barnes paused. "Are you alright?"
"Of course," I breathed. I forced air from my lungs; every breath shallow and loud yet controlled as I took slow, staggering steps. "I just... I just need to—"

            My knees buckled, and I shut my eyes as I allowed my body to fall. I braced for the impact but felt a pair of arms catch me as onlookers gasped.

            "Amber! God are you alright?" Barnes asked. I nudged him through his jacket, those around us too preoccupied to notice the action.

            He caught on. "Is there anywhere I can take her to lie down? Please, she's unwell."

"Uh..." The waiter muddled his words, unsure of what to do. The man probably hadn't planned for us not to drink the poison and was thinking of a way to get one of us to still drink it.
"There's a free cabin," said a third voice I recognised to be the waiter serving the table a few rows behind us earlier. "I'll show you. Come with me."

            I tried my best to relax my muscles, appearing limp as Barnes lifted me up. I forced myself not to cringe at the contact and managed to keep up the act, although I almost broke character a number of times when my foot collided with people's faces. No doubt Barnes was grinning at that.

            He laid me down on a velvet cushion.

            "Thank you," said Barnes with the voice of a concerned loved one. "I can watch her from here."
"Of course, sir. If there is anything she needs, just come and find me," said the voice. Then he was gone with the slam of a door.

            I waited a second to open my eyes and sit up, finding us to be in a cozy cabin with seats far more comfortable than the metal and plush ones in the standard seating area.
I stretched my arms out, relishing the free space. "You owe me for that one."
"Most girls would have killed to be in your position," Barnes scoffed with a fractious smile.
"Hardly!" I combed my fingers through my hair, fixing what the fall had messed up. Gabby would have been proud that I managed to escape a hostile situation without violence, but it did not change the fact that an assassin was on board, waiting to kill Barnes and me. What concerned me most was that there had been an attempt on both our lives – not just Barnes. There were two glasses in front of us; that meant two victims.

            As harsh as it sounded in my head, Barnes was a reasonable target. Being a rogue agent who maybe made several mistakes in his career labelled him as someone with a target on his back, but what had I done? There was nothing the both of us could have done together – we had met only two days prior – so the person wanting to harm Barnes must have thought my death necessary to get to him. This meant that it was someone outside of the agency, as an agent would not kill one of their own. But who? Barnes had betrayed the agency, that much was true, but had he really done something so terrible that someone else would want him dead? Not to mention, the assassin knew our location; information which only Alistair, Collins and Gabby knew through having access to the Director's computer.

            Every time I thought of the man, his tattoo sprung to mind. The whole image was not visible – only the edge. All I could see was a dark circle with a slit down the middle. If I had the chance, I would look at it more closely.

            I looked back at Barnes. He leaned against the sliding glass doors, eyes locked on his tapping foot. He thought I was going to let him choke on that wine. I could almost feel the contemplative relief from across the cabin.

            I had to say something.
"Barnes—"
"Agent—"

            We shut our mouths simultaneously, embarrassment pulling at the corners of our mouths.

            Barnes snorted. "Not to be rude, but I'm going first."
Stunned, I blinked. "Right."
His shoulders slackened. "I need to pee."
That... was not expected. "Okay..."
"Can I—" He stopped, sighing away his flushed cheeks. "Can I go?"
"Oh." I sat up straight, resting my left leg over the right. I needed to watch Barnes, but following him to the bathroom was a step too far. "I'm not following you in so yeah. Just go."
"Well, you can if you want but—"
"Just go!"

            He fell into the door with a howl of laughter and swung open the door, rushing out and down the corridor. I let myself smile when he was out of sight, furrowing my brows as his pounding footsteps died away.

***

I twiddled my thumbs for the half hour Barnes had vanished for, telling myself he would come back but hardly believing it to be true. It was a large train, of course, and neither of us had been for a walk around it to know where the bathrooms were. The most likely scenario was Barnes had got himself lost, ending up at another cabin or walking too far into the wrong compartment. Thinking of solutions did little to help, however, and my brain still planted seeds of 'what if'the entire time he was gone.

            Would he have jumped from the train to get away from me? I dreaded the thought then reminded myself that he turned himself in. From his actions in the past – surrendering at the Alps, sleeping rather than escaping at the inn, staying seated at the station – he had shown himself to be willing to hand over his freedom to the agency, even if he protested it verbally.

            The 'what ifs' started again.

            He displayed such odd behaviour for a rogue agent. The punishment for treason was a life sentence. If I was him, I would have seized every opportunity to escape it. Even if that meant a life of looking over my shoulder, it was still a life. For all his smugness and carefree attitude, Barnes gave up awfully quickly. For someone so stubborn, it was strange. Unless...

            Unless Alistair had something that could have ruined his life. No, life imprisonment was a life ruined. What could be worse?

             The darkest corner of my mind prodded me to think of Scotty. Losing someone you loved was worse. Much worse. But the agency had strict rules against hostages. It was unethical to use an innocent for the agency's gain. Individuals used that method with discretion, but the Director could not have possibly done it without attracting the attention of other agents or the ever-watching politicians that stalked his every move. I was ridiculous to even imagine it.

                I had to look for Barnes.

                We had no belongings to take, so I was fine with leaving the cabin unattended. The door swished closed behind me, movement of the train's wheels rattling the glass. I turned right to look for Barnes, only to meet the heavy chest of a six-foot-four giant instead.

                 The self-proclaimed waiter frowned down at me; the one who tried to poison us.

                 I forced a casual smile like I was greeting an old friend. "Hello again. Would you mind showing me where the nearest bathroom is, please?"
Something flashed across his eyes that told me we weren't going to a bathroom. "Follow me," he said, gesturing to the left of the corridor.
A trap, for certain. I sized him up for weaknesses. He was built like a machine, but many bulky men like that were slow. I'd go for his legs if I had the chance. Keep out of reach of his arms.

                Knowing I had my gun and taser safely within my jacket, I followed, maintaining a cool and collected demeanour.

                We passed through the dining cart with no sign of Barnes, then shimmied down a long and narrow corridor that stretched two whole carts. My footsteps grew louder, sharper as the burgundy carpet cut off and I stepped onto stone flooring. The lighting also grew dim, with the intervals between lamps expanding in length, and the air turned cold. From the lack of doors and excess of switchboxes, tool kits and empty buckets of paint, I judged this to be the maintenance cart.

                  I came face to face with a door and crossed my arms with a shiver.
"Right through here," said the waiter with a smile. The lines around his brow showed me the true callous nature of it – not to mention the glint of silver residing in his clenched right fist.

            I tore my eyes away and let him escort me inside, estimating me to have ten seconds at most to scan my surroundings.

            The sound attacked my ears. We were at the back of the train, where the tracks rattled, and wheels screeched at maximum volume. Only a pathetic ceiling light made the area visible, cutting colour from the stacked crates that made up the wall, covering the bare metal.

            He was behind me, closing the gap between us. I flexed the fingers of both my hands and balled them into fists. He was not as deceptive as he believed himself to be. This was clearly no agent.

            He cut through the air as I ducked and spun around. The knife skimmed by head by barely an inch.

            I fixed my form and swung my right fist at his jaw, hearing a crack as the two collided.

            To my astonishment, he barely fell off balance, and took another swing at me with the blade. I leaned back, the tip shaving the miniscule hair follicles on my jugular. He tried and failed again when I caught his armed hand in a cage of my own.

            I strained to keep the knife away from my face, pushing him away and even digging my own hands into the blade to keep myself from losing an eye. My throat squeaked, and my hands became wet with my own blood. If my shoulder was not roaring at me like it was, I could have escaped from this position by now.

            But I would not budge. And he knew that.

            He gave in and, while I was off-guard, punched me in the head with his free left hand. I grunted as I backed off, hitting the floor with a thud, then scurried to my feet.

            My eyes darted all over the place. Use the environment.What could I use?

            Then I spotted my next weapon right above his head.

            As he swung, I jumped. I grabbed an overhead pipe and hauled myself into a donkey-kick aimed for his stomach. The knife skated across the ground with a piercing rattle.

            I dropped and dived for the weapon, only to have my wounded shoulder gripped with clumsy, brutal hands, and I was thrown like a doll towards the shutters, my head banging off the metal.

            I hissed through my teeth and pressed a hand to my shoulder. There was a chuckle beside me as the hostile strutted towards the shutter and threw it open with a smug grin, wind filling the room.

            Arrogant arse. And I thought Barnes was bad.

            I was an inch away from a gruesome death. The wind bit and pulled me towards the tracks but the cool air shot my adrenaline into overdrive, numbing the pain.

            I rolled to the right, further into the compartment, and dragged myself to my feet.

            I took a defensive stance as the hostile shot me a taunting, cynical smile. He wanted me to charge; he wanted to step aside as I ran off the edge into my own self-inflicted violent end.

            Not today, ugly. Not today.

             I waved my eyebrows in silent insult and he changed his tactics to a full-blown assault. I leapt for the pipes again – my advantage in the fight being my light frame – and swung around at an angle, launching a kick at the back of his skull. He grunted, tripping on his own feet and landing close to the edge of the compartment.

              I dropped from the pipe, landing delicately, and ran for him, snatching the knife on my way.

              I drew it back, moonlight cutting through the metal, and plunged it forward.

             He grabbed my armed hand, squeezing it tightly on the open wound on my palm. I clenched my jaw in protest, fighting to stay on my feet, but his arms were far stronger. He pushed me down with both hands and my back hit the floor, grip loosening around the knife on the edge of the compartment.

              It bounced once then fell to the tracks, never to be seen by either of us again.

              I sat up, but the hostile was atop me in a second. He pushed my head backwards towards the tracks. I clawed and scratched at his hands that locked around my neck, moving my legs in any way I could to unpin them from under his knees.

              There was no way out. If he kept pushing, I would have fallen to my death beneath the rolling tracks if my neck did not break first. I tried rolling either side, but I was trapped in his tightening grasp. My hair blew back behind me; a dark noose threatening to latch and tangle around anything that got too close. Including the rails.

              Danger was around me in every form as the air began to thin out. I was suffocating.

              The snarling face in front of me began to fade out in the blind spots that plagued my vision. Pins and needles pricked every inch of my limbs, every muscle growing weaker and weaker...

              But I kept fighting. My kicks were now no more painful than a massage to him, my scratches barely strokes you would give to a cat. I could barely move. Barely breathe. Barely survive.

               Then he fell to the side, tugging at my neck as though he would tear out my throat. I snatched a deep, desperate gasp of air as my windpipe opened up, leaning forward to hoarsely and heavily cough while fighting for oxygen.

               My vision sharpened, strength returning enough for me to look up from my coughing fit to see him standing, fists raised and feet parted with his head held high. A trained agent ready to fight those that opposed him.

               Barnes.
"Christ, you're big," he quipped.

               The humungous hostile stepped to swing. Barnes caught his fist with shockingly graceful ease and kicked him in the crotch, throwing a punch at him with his free hand for good measure.

              His knuckles met his cheek nicely but the hostile got revenge, throwing his other fist at the other side of Barnes's face. It slammed into his nose, making Barnes stumble back with a grunt.

             Ignoring me entirely, the hostile squared up to Barnes.

             This was my chance.

              I grabbed him from behind and threw his huge self towards the stack of crates with all the strength I could muster with my small body, knocking them over with a crash and explosion of splinters, letting go before the collision.

              I brushed myself off and took a step back, mindful of the ledge.

               "Did you purposefully wait for my nose to start bleeding before you intervened?" Barnes asked, matching my stance in front of the open shutter.
"Just be grateful that it wasn't me who hit you," I replied, brushing a hand through my hair to hold it back from my face. The wind from the door was making it difficult to see, and my ponytail had fallen loose in the scuffle.
Barnes frowned. "Why?"
Shards of a smile formed on my lips. "Because you know for a fact that I would have hit you harder."

            His eyes lingered on my mouth for a moment until he decided that was a joke. He smiled, letting out a small laugh.

            I glanced at the crates. The hostile needed disposing of, but he was incapacitated for the moment. We could take a breather.

            For a moment, we listened to the sound of our breathing masked by the rumbling of the tracks and the whooshing of the wind circling inside the compartment.

            I debated not even saying anything, but, "Thank you by the way," I said, slow and cautious. "If you didn't come, I would have—"
"Died without my help?" Barnes smirked, raising an eyebrow.
I scoffed. "No! I would have... pulled a muscle or something. You just lightened the workload. I appreciate you helping."
He played along. "Of course. So you had a way out back there?" He raised his chin, sizing me up.
"I did, in fact," I said, mirroring him.
"Mmm." He pursed his lips and nodded, the two of us in a momentary standoff that was still the least antagonistic we had been with one another since the minute we met.

            He laughed.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
He looked away and shook his head, then stared back at me with a tight-lipped grin. "Nothing."
My eyes softened at the smile he sent my way, my stomach flipping so fast I made myself frown. Then Barnes did.

            His jaw dropped, eyes flashing white. "AMBER!"

            Before I could react, I was thrown to one side, latching onto Barnes as we almost toppled over the edge of the platform, the hostile banging off the wall and onto the tracks as his attempt at a charge failed grimly. I almost retched at the sound of his body crunching, watching him shrink into the distance into a tiny red spec as the train sped away.

            I let out a gasp and turned away, biting back a second one as my nose hit Barnes's face. My knuckles turned white as I gripped his shirt, fingers shaking to the rapid beating of the heart beneath his chest as my own drummed in my ears so violently I could hear nothing else. I had to look, and cursed myself as I lifted my downcast eyes to lock onto his, finding him looking down at me the same way I looked up at him.

            Confusion. And curiosity. Both of us were at a loss for words but unable to let go.

            The wind whipped at the two of us from one side, but from the other I was on fire. Every inch where his skin met mine was burning at the presence of a broken boundary – even my face turned hot at the gentle breeze of his heavy exhales. When he moved his hand further up my back to steady me, I shivered.

            Then he let go. "Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," I assured, taking a few paces backwards and almost tripping over a shattered crate. "Thanks. Again."
He smiled half-heartedly but his eyes failed him. They jumped between where his hands touched my back and hip then back up to my face. "Always a pleasure."

            I could feel that my face had not cooled down yet. It grew worse when I recalled that he shouted my name at the volume he did...     

            "We should—" I choked on the lump in my throat. "We should probably go."
Barnes nodded. "Okay," he said, as quiet as me.

            I turned away from him as he bent down to close the door, forcing my eyes to look elsewhere. I needed distance. Yes, distance would do it. I couldn't breathe near him.

            But we had to walk down that narrow corridor together. I could have cried just thinking about it.

            Barnes coughed. "Agent. Are you coming?"

            He had a hand on the door handle, holding it open. I nodded quickly and rushed out, tucking in my arms to cover my chest and torso, trying to rub off his touch.

            I trusted him enough to follow me, but grew twitchy at how close he shadowed me. Too close for comfort, I called it. I could feel his heat at my back; feel his deep breaths on my neck.

            A strange feeling washed over me as we made our way down the corridor. A weird vortex of cordial warmth and animosity. I had hardly given Barnes reason to save my life, and he had done it anyway. Twice in a matter of minutes. I would not deny that I was grateful for it, but at the same time I felt exposed, vulnerable in front of him in a way that I was not at peace with.

            To be vulnerable is to be weak. To be weak is to write your own death sentence.